


Finding a Voice

by Roselightfairy



Series: Finding a Voice [1]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Anxiety, Cuddling, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Friendship/Love, Gen, Handholding, Hurt/Comfort, Legolas centric, Love Confessions, M/M, Meet the Family, Mild Sexual Content, POC Legolas, Panic Attacks, Pining, Sea-longing, Slow Build, Slow Burn, anxious!Legolas, but so much Gimli worship, entirely bookverse, eventually, kind of, so much handholding, understanding!Gimli
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-08
Updated: 2018-01-11
Packaged: 2019-02-12 06:35:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 35
Words: 85,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12953445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Roselightfairy/pseuds/Roselightfairy
Summary: Legolas can fight if provoked, negotiate if absolutely necessary, and open up to close friends. But ask him to interact on a friendly but distant level, and he turns into a nervous wreck.  When Elrond asks him to join the Fellowship of the Ring, he is far less anxious about the enemies they will have to face than about the eight companions with whom he will be traveling.Gimli is fully ready to reach out a hand in friendship to the elf in their group – until he perceives that Legolas is not ready to return the favor.  He spends the early days of their Quest seething with resentment.Their stay in Lothlorien opens the door to new understanding between them, leading to a friendship – or more – that will be sung of for ages.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I really, really did not mean for this to happen. I was reading “Two Towers,” noticed that Legolas tended not to talk much outside of his friend group, and thought, “hey, wouldn’t it be funny if he were really shy?” Well, shy!Legolas turned into Legolas-with-debilitating-social-anxiety, turned into a story that was way longer than I intended it to be.
> 
> This story also arose out of a general dissatisfaction with the way Legolas is portrayed. I’ve seen way too much arrogant!Legolas or extraverted!Legolas, neither of which I agree with. My Legolas is introverted, awkward, and anxious – but also kind, perceptive, and generally well-meaning. Legolas is also often portrayed as blond, but I remember reading someone’s comparison between the Silvan elves and indigenous or Native American people (I don’t remember whose, unfortunately), and I decided to try to write him as a POC. Full disclosure: I am very much not a POC myself, and this is an attempt at representation rather than tokenization, but if I ever cross any lines, please let me know how and why and I will do my best to fix them.**
> 
> **Edit: I feel like this (and the other self-justifying notes throughout) are accidentally coming across as hostile to other interpretations, and I just want to clarify that I don't actually think anything is _wrong_ with interpreting Legolas in a different way, it was just that the thing I was getting tired of was not seeing the interpretation I was looking for, specifically. This goes for all the notes I've written, as well.**
> 
> One last disclaimer: this story is pretty much entirely bookverse. I have seen the trilogy exactly once and the Hobbit movies never. My characterizations and headcanons come from the books, as best I can make them, but have likely also been influenced by other stories or posts. I will credit any direct influence, but most of it has just come from reading tons and tons of fanfic.
> 
> Okay. After all that, on to the actual story.

Legolas was near panic.

He supposed that he had only himself to blame.  He hadn’t needed to come.  His father had given him the opportunity to decline, to stay in Mirkwood and let someone else carry the news of their failure.  His failure.

But it was his failure, in the end, and he could never have allowed someone else to deliver the news.  He had been the one to agree to take in the creature Gollum, had been the one to promise the man Aragorn their aid, and he had been in charge of the creature’s captivity.  It was because of his manipulated feelings that they had let the creature spend time in the free air, and it was his failure to fight off the Orcs that had led to his escape, and to the deaths of his guards.  It was his failure, his weakness, his fault.

And to send someone else to confess these things to Aragorn and Elrond would have been even further weakness on his part – so much that he could not bear it.

Which was the reason he now sat in a cold sweat – a phenomenon he was fairly certain elves were not supposed to experience – in a council whose news seemed to be getting worse and worse by the minute.

He had rehearsed the words – had practiced them while riding, to the studied silence and carefully-averted glances of his companions.  _Smeagol, now called Gollum, has escaped_.  He had practiced the apologies, the careful detached storytelling.  Surely a lord like Elrond would notice the shaking of his hands, the slickness of his upper lip, but just as surely a lord like Elrond would ignore those signs out of politeness, yes?

Questions he had carefully asked himself, and not his companions, pretending he did not see them all itching to snatch the words out of his mouth and shuffle him back home, in their attempt to protect him not from other people but from himself.

He had practiced the words enough that he had thought he could say them, but he had planned to say them only to Elrond and Aragorn; perhaps Mithrandir if he had chosen to show up.  He had not planned for a council, for so many elves, and the two hobbits, and even dwarves – _dwarves_ , before whom he knew his family would want him to comport himself with dignity – and they had told him to postpone his news for just the one night before the council met the next day.

“It was my responsibility as much as yours.  Are you certain that you do not want me to deliver the news instead?” Eleniel had asked on the way.  Kind rather than condescending, and Legolas knew that she was trying to protect him rather than demean him, but he had bristled anyway, and brushed her off, and murmured his practiced words once more.  As his second her responsibility was less than his, as much as she might also blame herself – and Legolas had no interest in being coddled by his friend.

And it was for that reason that he sat here now, toes curling tightly in his shoes in an effort to keep his legs from jiggling, but with his shaking hands a lost cause, and drowning in a cold sweat.

He had met Bilbo Baggins once, not long after the Battle of Five Armies – introduced only briefly by his father.  He had never spoken directly to the hobbit, but had heard tales of his exploits afterwards and had liked him– but only from afar, only in the way a quiet wood-elf with no heroic deeds to his name might admire a hobbit of great renown.  And he could already tell that Frodo, his nephew, deserved some of that same renown.  But hearing Bilbo’s tales of exchanging riddles with Gollum, of all that he had done to find the ring, did not make him any less intimidating.  And then Mithrandir – and the more they spoke of that Gollum, the clearer his importance became, and the drier Legolas’s throat.

 _His failure.  His fault.  His duty_.

The words that he had practiced fell to shreds, mangling themselves into a knot of justifications and explanations, forced their way into his throat and stuck there.  It was the same choking feeling he always got when trying to speak to someone new, the feeling that usually left him nodding and smiling and leaving as quickly as possible – but it was also a _gagging_ , the desire to expel the words and have them gone, have them _out_ , and let the consequences come as they would.  He sat there, shaking and sweating and trying to breathe around the lump of words caught in his throat, and then Aragorn explained what they had done with Gollum, and the guilt made Legolas feel even sicker.

“He could work much mischief still, if he were free,” Aragorn was saying, and Legolas’s awareness faded for a moment in a high-pitched ringing in his ears – and then he could hold back no longer, and the words were coming out.

“Alas, alas!” he cried, aware that he was practically interrupting, unable to force the words – or the distress – back into his throat.  “The tidings that I was sent to bring must now be told.  They are not good, but only here have I learned how evil they may seem to this company.”  The knot had not resolved itself tidily, it seemed; his father was skilled at masking his emotions, and Legolas had never mastered the ability.  “Smeagol, who is now called Gollum, has escaped.”

He winced as he said those last words, and was not disappointed in the reaction he had feared they would elicit.  “Escaped?  That is ill news indeed!” exclaimed Aragorn, and Legolas’s stomach pulled itself into a tight ball of wire.  “We shall all rue it bitterly, I fear,” and truly, the taste in Legolas’s mouth was bitter indeed.  “How came the folk of Thranduil to fail in their trust?”

Legolas flinched at that, could not hold back the reaction, but breathed deep and tried to answer.  Luckily he had practiced the speech enough that now, with a good lead-in, it returned to him, and he was able to recite it now without too much trouble, that first block broken.  But then he was interrupted.

“You were less tender to me,” said Glóin the dwarf when Legolas spoke of their desire to treat Gollum with compassion.  Legolas remembered him, though again only vaguely.  He’d had little contact with the dwarves they’d captured, had only learned Glóin's name here, when he had spoken earlier.  He hadn’t wanted to make an enemy of the dwarves – had in fact intended to speak with them as little as possible – only now he was faced with a direct confrontation and his tongue hardened in his mouth, and he could not speak.  He froze, and a breath rasped in through his throat loudly enough that he knew all the other elves could hear it, if it were not audible to everyone in the room.

But Mithrandir saved him.  He spoke quickly, smoothing over Glóin’s temper and the situation, and at the end of his speech about grievances between elves and dwarves, he caught Legolas’s eye and winked.  And that friendly gesture – the most comforting sign he had received here so far – melted the ice in Legolas’s mouth and set his rehearsed speech flowing again.

Surely he did not speak it too well, but the hours of practicing had helped enough that he thought he had at least presented his information in as dignified a manner as possible.  He did spend his requisite few minutes of self-flagellation afterwards, but it was not as severe as it had been in the past – simply because he was so relieved that it was over.

It was over, it was done, and there was nothing else he could do – even Mithrandir had agreed so.  Now he could wait out the rest of the council and return to his home.

Or so he thought.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elrond and Gandalf have a conversation.

“I see you have asked Legolas to stay for a few more nights.”

“Hmm.”

“In a house that does not belong to you.”

“Do you object to my inviting guests on your behalf?”

“Only when you do not explain the purpose of such invitations.”

“Ah, but I think you know my purposes.”

“. . . You think that he will be a good choice, then?  I have deferred to your judgment in some matters, Mithrandir, but as a choice for the elves” –

“And those who will be traveling for the men?  There will be enough contention for leadership between Aragorn and Boromir.  The Ring feeds on power.  Did you wish to add an Elf-Lord to that struggle as well?”

“I suppose not, but all the same” –

“Trust me, Lord Elrond.  I have a good feeling about this.”

“That is a sign that it will certainly not end well.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elrond organizes a meet ‘n’ greet, Legolas and Eleniel have a fight, and Legolas and Gimli get off on the wrong foot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because Middle-earth is sorely lacking in ladies, I have decided to give Legolas both a sister and a female friend.

It had been easier to agree to accompany the Ringbearer than it was to meet him.  And, as he stared around at this strange assortment of people that was to become a Fellowship, Legolas found himself thinking longingly of the bands of Orcs they would likely meet on the way – those, at least, would not expect to hold polite conversation with him.

Aragorn approached him first after Lord Elrond had introduced them all to one another, and it was something of a relief to know that the first person he would have to speak to was the one he already knew, even if only from a brief meeting.  “Legolas,” he said.  “I am glad you are here.  I wished to apologize for my words at the Council.”

He did not need to elaborate any further; Legolas knew exactly which words he meant, having replayed them in his own head many times since they had first been spoken.  “They were rightfully spoken,” he said, finding his tongue after no more than a slight delay – one that should not have been noticeable to a mortal, but he saw Aragorn’s eyes narrow slightly and remembered that he was talking to one who had been raised in Rivendell.  “I came here to report a failure; it would be foolish of me to resent one who dared speak it out loud.”

Aragorn looked at him carefully.  “I spoke those words without knowing the loss of life that resulted from his escape,” he said.  “I apologize for adding bitterness to your sorrow.”

Legolas tensed.  He had come in part because of the loss of life: Laerwen’s niece had been among those slain, a young warrior on her first assignment, and under his command.  He could not have held his sister as she wept for the loss and then refused to travel himself to report it – but he did not like to think of it, and Aragorn seemed to see that.  He simply inclined his head and turned away to greet Gimli, the dwarf.

Legolas looked around.  The hobbits seemed as shy of him as he was of them, though Frodo seemed to be steeling himself to approach before he was waylaid by Boromir.  What was this to be, then?  An introduction of names and pleasant chatter of the sort Legolas had never been able to master?  Elves did not do such things – they might play with words, but never used them superfluously.  Some had gained the skill, but Legolas had never mastered it – and looking around, he felt his throat go tight, his hands twitching, clasping and unclasping with one another as he tried to master his desire to flee.

The door opened and Eleniel entered; never had Legolas been so grateful for her as he was now.  He forced himself to stand still, not to run to her, but he sought her gaze, and her gray-green eyes locked with his.  She beckoned, and he nearly sagged in relief before approaching her.

“Legolas,” she said in Westron, so that they would all understand.  “I would speak with you – there is a matter that needs discussing.”

“Of course,” he responded in the same language, nodding to his to-be-companions as he followed her out.

She took hold of his arm when they left the room, and he would have been ashamed that she could feel it trembling, had she not seen him so much worse.  “Legolas,” she said under her breath, switching to the Silvan dialect so that few if any there would understand them, “what have you done?”

He made no pretense of not understanding.  “What I had to,” he responded in the same tongue.

“Had to?”  No longer did he feel saved, as they walked along the corridors together arguing in low voices, but rather trapped: she had rescued him to berate him, and perhaps to prove a point.  “And for what purpose did you have to leave your people, leaving me to deliver the news to your family, for a hope that even Lord Elrond thinks is scant?  Because of your _guilt_?  Why would you agree to such a thing?”

“The Lord Elrond asked me himself,” he retorted, hot but quiet, “and if you would have refused such a summons” –

“But he did not ask me,” she responded.  “He asked you, and you assented!  You, Legolas, who looks to me for rescue from those who will be your traveling companions!”  Her voice was rising with every word.  “Why would you agree to such a journey – one which threatens to take you away from your family and your people forever – when you can scarcely speak to those who will journey with you?”

“Eleniel!” he hissed, feeling heat rise in his cheeks, anger or shame, he knew not which.  “Be quiet – someone will _hear_!”

“Then perhaps your companions will learn what your voice sounds like!” she snapped.

Legolas jerked bodily away from her at that last sentence, drawing himself up and forcing a mask of dignity over his fury and hurt.  “That is _enough_ ,” he said icily.  “At this moment, I care not who knows the sound of my voice – only that I wish to hear no more of yours.”  And, with his blood thundering angrily through his veins, he turned his back firmly on her and walked away as quickly as he could.

He did not know how long he walked alone, only that it was longer than he should have needed and far from enough time for his temper to cool.  He knew that his anger was obvious in his motions: his stride tight and swift, eartips burning and breath hissing in and out through his teeth, but he could not relax.  He could hear no sound above his own fast breathing and the roaring of the blood in his ears, which was why the voice caught him by surprise.

“Master Elf.”

He froze, blood and breath sucked away at an instant.  Anger draining away into ice, he forced himself to turn around.

The dwarf, Gimli, was standing behind him, his muscular arms crossed tightly over his chest.  His feet were braced shoulder-width apart on the ground, solid and sturdy as a statue.  Lit from behind with a ray of sunlight, his hair and beard turned to fire while his eyes were dark in the shadows.  He was like a figure from legend, and for all that the top of his head barely reached Legolas’s chest, Legolas felt small before him.  He could not speak.

Gimli seemed to be waiting for some acknowledgment, but Legolas knew that if he opened his mouth, his voice would fail him.  He nodded once instead, crossing his own arms so that Gimli would not see them shake.

The dwarf’s face tightened, but he spoke anyway.  “I suppose you know my family has no love for yours, Master Legolas.”  Legolas’s throat contracted, and he almost hoped that Gimli would say something insulting – that, perhaps, would shake him free of this sudden intimidation, allow him to respond.  Anger was surely better than nothing.  But instead Gimli continued.  “But if we are to be traveling companions, it would not do to be constantly at odds.  For the sake of our other companions, and the hopes of a pleasanter journey, I am willing to put aside our differences and our families’ grudges, if you will.”  And he unfolded his arms from his chest to hold one out before him, offering Legolas a hand.

Ai, but this was worse than anger!  Now was the time to speak, or move, if he could not, at least to take his hand, but Legolas could do neither.  His jaw refused to unclench, his throat sucked dry of all moisture, and his hands could only grip his opposite sleeves where his arms remained pressed against his body, as though he were holding himself together.  Had he even breathed since Gimli had addressed him?  He could not remember, and the room was beginning to blur around the edges, but all he could do was stare.  And the longer the silence stretched, the louder Eleniel’s voice rang in his head: _Why would you agree to such a journey when you can scarcely speak to those who will travel with you?_   She was right, and the shame of it was enough to crumble him – but if nothing else, he would hold himself upright.  If he could not appear friendly, he would at least not appear weak.

Not even if it was true.

After a long moment, Gimli’s face hardened, his eyebrows drawing together over those dark eyes.  He withdrew his hand, clenching it and the other into fists – and _such fists_ ; one of them looked large enough to contain both of Legolas’s arms at once.  “Very well,” he growled.  “I can see you cannot even deign to shake a dwarf’s hand.  Forgive me for hoping you different from your kin.  We shall just stay out of one another’s ways, shall we?”  He glared at Legolas a few seconds longer, those dark eyes filled with such anger and – and _disgust_ , Legolas thought, and then turned to stomp away.

As soon as he was out of sight, the tension locking Legolas in place finally disappeared.  He gasped for air, long breaths scraping into his chest: knife strokes across the whetstone of his throat.  The room whirled and darkened around him and the strength left his limbs: he stumbled backwards until his back met the nearest wall, and then slid to the ground and put his head between his knees.

That was where Eleniel found him a few minutes later, in a crumpled heap against the wall.  He heard her coming – his thundering heart had finally slowed enough to let in other noise – but did not look up.  His breathing had calmed enough that he could probably sit up, but he was too tired and ashamed to meet her eyes.

He heard her footsteps stop close to him, and then there was a gentle touch on the back of one of his hands.  “Legolas?” she said softly.  “Can you hear me?”

He mumbled some answer that even he could not have identified.

“Do you want me to leave you alone?”

He shook his head but did not lift it from his bent knees.

She settled herself on the floor beside him, taking one of his hands carefully into hers and putting the other on his shoulder.  “Is this all right?”

He nodded silently.

She let the quiet stretch for a moment more, and then began to rub his shoulder slowly, in gentle circular motions.  “Legolas, I am sorry.”

“You need not apologize,” Legolas mumbled into his knees.  “You were right; I should not have agreed to this.”

“I was wrong,” she said quietly but firmly.  “I should not have suggested that your fears had any impact on your valiance.”

“But they do.”  He raised his head at last, turning to face her.  The kindness in her eyes was enough to bring tears to his, where Gimli’s anger had not.  “I cannot even speak to my companions, Eleniel.  I must to Lord Elrond, to tell him he should find another elf.”  He dropped his head again.  “One who will not disappoint him.”

Her fingers found his chin and guided his head up again, forcing him to look at her again.  “I was wrong, Legolas,” she repeated.  “I spoke out of my fear for you, not out of any doubt in your ability.  Truly, you have shown courage that puts many of us to shame.”

He raised his eyebrows at her.  “Courage?  Eleniel, one of my would-be companions approached me only moments ago and offered me his friendship.  I could not speak, and he withdrew in anger.  If that is courage, then I shudder to see what cowardice looks like.”

“Courage,” she said gently, “because you face fear that would overcome any of us, and yet volunteer for more.  _Legolas_ ,” she said, when he would have replied, hands still on his face so that he could not look away, “this journey will require the kind of courage that you have.  Not confidence – confidence, I think, will be a danger to your company – but courage and kindness, and those you have aplenty.”

He looked down, and finally she let him.  She labeled him with words he did not see in himself – and saw even less so when he remembered his shameful confrontation of earlier, and the contempt he had seen in the dwarf’s eyes.  Legolas had felt so small –

“I do not know if I can do this, Eleniel,” he confessed, his eyes fixed on her shoes.

“Do you believe in it?”

He looked back up at her and cocked his head in confusion.

“Does it feel right to you?” she asked.  “Set aside your companions; set aside logic.  You know what is right for you, Legolas.  Do you believe in this mission, and do you believe that it is something you must do?”

He thought about that – how terrified and flattered he had felt when Lord Elrond had asked him to join the Fellowship, and yet how _right_ it had felt that he should do something for it, not only to atone for the failures that had led to Gollum’s escape, but because he felt that he _must_ –

“Yes,” he said, before he knew it.

“Then you must.”  She set her hands on his shoulders and gave him a sad smile.  “I will fear for you – and for myself, telling your father and sister what has happened” – at that, they shared a smile – “but if you believe you must do this, Greenleaf, then I believe that you can.”

He drew in a breath, to say he knew not what, and she seemed to sense that he did not know.  Instead of letting him speak, she tugged on his shoulders and pulled him into a cramped embrace – both of them still sitting, their legs tangled, knees bumping into their chests, but her arms were warm and strong and Legolas laid his head on her shoulder, closed his eyes, and breathed.

“Better?” she asked when they parted.

He nodded.  “Better.”

She patted his arm, then rose and pulled him after her.  He stood easily now, trembling vanished, grace restored.  She cast an appraising eye over him, nodded, and smiled.  “All will be well,” she promised.

He knew not if it would be, but for now, hearing it was enough.

* * *

Gimli was fuming.

For all that dwarves’ legs were short, they were powerful, and his strides carried him more swiftly than anyone else might imagine a dwarf to be able to move.  Clenched fists swung at his sides, and he knew that his angered breathing was loud enough for any of these high-and-mighty elves to hear and laugh.

He tried to force that last uncharitable thought out of his mind, but it was hard, in moments like this, not to project his anger at one supercilious elf onto his entire people.  He supposed that that went part of the way to explaining the long-standing feud between their peoples – the Lord Elrond had been courteous enough, but the look in that wood-elf’s eyes as he gazed down at Gimli had made Gimli feel so uncomfortable and exposed, as though he were being peeled apart and his insides revealed.  And with how much older and more powerful Elrond was, it was not difficult to imagine him looking down the same way – onto one dwarf, but also onto the entire race.

He just – ! The way he had spoken not a word to Gimli, as though his very existence was not even worth his breath!  He had merely gazed down, older and taller and dismissive, as though Gimli was a speck before him –

“Ho, there, Gimli.”  There was a hand on his shoulder and Gimli huffed as he was suddenly stopped in his tracks.  His father’s hand, wrinkled now but its grip still strong as iron, had clamped down on him and arrested his motion.  “Where are you going, and who lit you on fire?”

It had been a rhetorical question, but Gimli was still burning too hot to keep quiet.  “That elf,” he grumbled, only slightly bothering to keep his voice down.

“As the city is filled with them, you will have to be more specific,” Glóin reminded him, looking too amused for the situation.  Gimli simply turned a look on him, and his father’s face sobered.  “Ah.  Thranduil’s son?”

“Who else?”  Conscious that his father’s hand was still on his shoulder, Gimli breathed deeply and calmed.  “He is evidently not ready to forgive and forget, even when offered by the wronged party himself.”

“His son, rather,” Glóin pointed out, but relented when Gimli glared again, in no mood for teasing.  “Ah, come now, Gimli,” he soothed.  “It is naught more than we could have expected!  Or” – His face calmed, now, but with danger lurking beneath, and he released his grip on Gimli’s shoulder.  “Were you hoping for something different?”

Gimli shrugged.  In truth, he knew not what he had been hoping for.  He knew that his father, and the remaining members of Thorin Oakenshield’s Company, would never have any love for Thranduil or his children, and Gimli supposed that he hadn’t himself been hoping for _friendship_ , exactly, but –

But something more than that stare, those crossed arms that refused to even shake his hand.  If Legolas hadn’t been looking down at him with such disdain, he would have thought himself ignored completely.

“Hoping, perhaps, that he would at least deign to speak to me,” Gimli said at last, “rather than stare down as at an insect he would fain crush beneath his heel.”

Glóin scoffed.  “Perhaps he couldn’t speak.  You know those wood-elves – half of them don’t even lower themselves to learn the Common Tongue.”

“He said enough at the Council,” Gimli countered.  “All excuses and justifications it was, but words nonetheless, and in Common.”

Glóin shrugged.  “Then perhaps he is simply unintelligent.  Faced with the glory of a dwarf-lord in his prime, not to mention one of your charm and talents – oh, don’t give me that look, you know it is true – he could think of nothing to say worthy of you.  But I’ll hear no more of this _insect_ speech.  If he would not speak to you, he is hardly worthy of your words, my son.”  He clapped Gimli on the shoulder.  “Think no more of this.  Your other companions will be much better company, I am sure – those men seem worthy folk, and a nephew of Bilbo Baggins will be a grand companion indeed.”  He led Gimli off toward their rooms, talking of hobbits, and other more pleasant matters than impolite elves.

Gimli followed him, letting himself listen halfheartedly and pushing the elf out of his mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...I may have also decided I wanted to flip the trope of Legolas looking down on Gimli at the beginning of their acquaintance.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eleniel leaves, and Legolas . . . tries. Really, he's trying.

Eleniel and the guards left not long after: some time after the Fellowship had been assembled and solidified, but some time still before they were set to leave on their own journey.  Legolas stayed with her all the morning she was to leave, and walked her to where their horses had been made ready.  Legolas stroked his own horse’s neck sadly as Eleniel readied him for the journey – she was to ride him home, so that he would return at least to familiar surroundings.

“I wish you were not leaving,” he had to say, finally, hard as he tried to force it back.

“I know.”  She squeezed his hand.  “And I that you were not staying.  But” –

“But we must do what we must,” Legolas finished.  Still, he did not want to let go.

She seemed to feel the same way, so by unspoken agreement they made their way to the courtyard with hands still clasped, hers squeezing gently at Legolas’s every time his fingers tried to worry at one another.  He never noticed the nervous habit until someone else pointed it out for him, and something clenched in his stomach and chest at the realization that when she left, he would be alone – who now would stop him before his companions noticed?  Before they all –

“Legolas,” said Eleniel softly, and he realized they had arrived at the courtyard, and Eleniel’s guards were waiting.

He swallowed, and then brought her hand to his lips.  “Fare thee well, my friend,” he said.  “Tell my father it was my decision and my duty, that all his blame will fall on me when I return, and tell Laerwen” – He broke off.  Telling Laerwen anything at all now seemed like a poor idea.  He gave Eleniel a sheepish smile.  “Make something up to tell Laerwen.”

Eleniel laughed, though her eyes were watering.  “I see now why you will not return with me,” she said.  “You wish to unleash the wrath of your sister on one undeserving.”

“I believe in your ability to withstand,” he said solemnly.  “Nay, tell her – tell her I had to do it.  And that I will see her again.”

“I will,” Eleniel said.  “And – take care of yourself, Legolas.  I will see thee again, on thy safe return.”  She took up both of his hands in a firm grip, a promise.

All he could do was nod.  When he released her hands, he turned to his guards, and they exchanged their farewells – bows, and promises, and wishes for a safe journey.  Then he kissed Eleniel farewell, and she and the others mounted their horses and turned to depart.

Legolas watched them until they were out of sight.  Then, brushing a hand over his eyes, he turned to go himself.

He walked through the halls alone for a time, trying to accustom himself to the aching emptiness in his chest, as though someone had scooped out a large portion of his insides and his breaths scraped through the empty space.  He had never been so alone, without the company of those who understood him, who knew him, and the thought of the months and the long journey ahead would have terrified him, if he had had the energy for fear.

It was a small mercy that his eyes were dry once more, if a bit sore around the edges, when he encountered the dwarf.

He would have heard him earlier, had he not been so taken in by his own thoughts, but as it was he did not hear Gimli until he was too close to the corner to turn back, and did not identify what it was he heard until he had rounded the corner and saw once again the dwarf standing solid and strong, taking up far more space than his stature seemed to allow, and he froze.

Gimli’s face was turned away from him, and Legolas wondered, if he held his breath and moved quietly, if he might creep backwards and flee, to avoid the confrontation that such a run-in would inevitably bring, but he was too late.  Gimli turned, to make for the hall where Legolas stood, and all he could do was stand and stare, once again caught in the snare that the dwarf’s very presence seemed to exude.  At least this time he was still breathing.

Gimli’s eyebrows raised.  “Ah,” he said shortly.  “It’s you.”

This time he would speak, he promised himself; this time he would prove himself a worthy companion.  “Yes,” he said.  That was easy; Gimli’s words had almost been a question, and questions demanded answers.

But Gimli seemed to be waiting for more, and all Legolas’s sense of nicety seemed to have deserted him.  So he stood and waited and reminded his lungs how they were supposed to work, braced his legs so they would cease their shaking.

“Well?” Gimli demanded, when the silence had stretched out so long.  “Did you only wish to stare at me?  Have you something to say?”

Another question.  Another answer.  “No.”  Legolas forced himself to breathe again.

But once again it had been wrong.  Gimli’s heavy eyebrows drew together, his defensive frown hardening into a full scowl.  “I see,” he said.  “You do not deign to waste words on one lower than yourself, is that so?”  Before Legolas could even try to answer, he had folded his arms over his chest.  “If you would not speak to me, do not seek me out.”

And, that now said, Gimli brushed past him into the hallway whence Legolas had just come, turning his back and stalking off without another word, just as he had last time.

Legolas’s “I” – floated through the air after him – too quiet, and too late.  Gimli either did not hear or did not listen, and then he was around the corner and gone.

It was all just as well.  Legolas did not know what he would have said.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Fellowship sets out. Some get along more easily than others.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 100-word drabbles recounting the road of the Fellowship through Moria.

He asked Mithrandir quietly, away from the others.  “My senses are sharper,” he argued.  “And with my bow I am best-suited to thwart any foes from behind.”

Mithrandir raised his eyebrows.  “That may be so,” he said.  “But dissemble not – I know the true reason you volunteer.”

Legolas felt himself flush, his tongue knotting up.  Perhaps his lack of response was enough, for Mithrandir’s eyes softened. “You must open up eventually,” he said, but freed Legolas from his gaze.

“Legolas will be our rearguard,” he announced to the others, and Legolas sighed with relief and fell back behind the rest.

* * *

Gandalf led their group, Aragorn at his side, discussing their road.  Boromir hung just behind them, but he spoke little during their walk, often seeming lost in thought, and could usually only be persuaded to open up in the evenings around a fire.

Gimli often found himself walking in the middle of the hobbits.  They were good company: curious, eager listeners, but down-to-earth and bursting with “good plain hobbit-sense,” as they called it.

And they were a distraction from the elf who walked always behind them, whose disdainful gaze Gimli swore he could feel on the back of his neck.

* * *

In the evenings they shared stories or songs. The hobbits gave detailed accounts of their third cousins’ birthday parties and the gossip of the Shire; Aragorn tales of his Ranger companions and elven myths; Gimli accounts of old campaigns, or friends of Bilbo Baggins at Erebor.  Even reticent Boromir let himself be teased into sharing some lore of Gondor.  Mithrandir spoke little, but smiled at all of them.

And Legolas sat, too, warmed by the dancing flames but with his hands and belly clenching in discomfort: equal parts yearning to join in and not quite daring to put himself forward.

* * *

Speechless, he watched them instead.

Watched Mithrandir, whose face lined in deep dread when no one was looking.  Watched Aragorn, whose quiet knowledge and assurance won loyalty from all.  Watched Boromir: bent with the fate of a suffering people, all the weight on his shoulders.  Watched Sam: simple, courageous; loyalty drawing him into a quest not his own.  Watched Pippin, who did not know what he had volunteered for; and Merry, who knew but had come anyway.  Watched Frodo, hunched under a burden greater than all of theirs, and the doubt that he could bear it.  Watched Gimli –

Watched Gimli.

* * *

He would try this time.  It was, after all, his turn.

Gimli was stacking wood beside their would-be firepit when Legolas approached.  “I will make the fire, if you wish,” he offered.

Gimli started, knocking over a wood pile.  His eyes hardened, and Legolas tensed.  “I have it in hand,” he said.  “Whatever you may have heard, we dwarves are in fact capable.”

Why was he so defensive?  “Do as you wish, then, if you will not accept help,” Legolas said, anger overtaking him in turn, and stalked away.

Regret set in as soon as he was out of sight.

* * *

He could feel it in his mind at times, usually when he sat awake on watch and gazed at the others in their fitful sleep.  It promised him power, glory, and when he shied away from those, it gave him the images of his companions, brought to their knees. _You would not need fear them_ , it whispered.  _You could take all that you wanted from them without needing to ask._

But he knew that the Ring could not change his very being – at least, not for the better.  If he could do nothing else for his companions, he could resist.

* * *

“If Gandalf would go before you with a bright flame, he might melt a path for you.”

Gimli glared, and was pleased to find that he was not the only one.  The elf might prance about atop the snow, not feeling the cold – not feeling _anything_ , it seemed – but that gave him no right to make light of his companions’ troubles.

Gandalf was not pleased with the suggestion, either.  It was vindicating, for once, not to be the only one put out.

“Farewell, I go to find the sun!” Legolas chirped, and Gimli was not the only one to growl.

* * *

His companions flailed in the deepening snow even as Legolas so often flailed in his clumsy attempts at speech.  It seemed to bring him closer to them, if only in his own mind.  Gave him courage – let the belly-clenching tension abate, at least enough to tease, playful as he would have been with a close friend.  As soon as the words left his mouth, though, he realized that he had misjudged their discomfort – that his speech had only made the situation worse.

In the end, he decided, it all acted as a confirmation that he should keep his mouth closed.

* * *

Gimli could at least admit that Legolas was a ferocious warrior.  It stung him a bit to admit it, but the choice of rearguard for their company had been made well.

The bodies of the Wargs had disappeared by dawn, leaving only arrows behind; the Fellowship collected them in silence – a silence that Legolas, of all people, broke.

“I know not where the corpses went,” he said finally, “but I know that each of these arrows struck a killing blow.”

More than one person looked to Gimli as though expecting him to disagree.  But he said nothing.  He had seen.

* * *

“It was not the fault of the dwarves that the friendship waned,” said Gimli.  Not when elves thought themselves so superior to all others, and were unable even to think of stepping down from their pedestals.

“I have not heard that it was the fault of the elves,” snapped Legolas back.  Not when dwarves grew so instantly and ferociously defensive over every small statement, and perceived insult even where none had been intended.

“I have heard both, and I will not give judgment now,” said Gandalf wearily, and wondered when the two would finally begin to listen to one another.

* * *

Legolas’s entire body surged with terror, primal age-old instincts screaming at him to run, run, _run_ , leave this dark hole behind him.  His companions were running, and he should follow – but no. One remained behind.

Gimli knelt before his kinsman’s tomb, bent with weeping, motionless.

It tore at all of Legolas’s instincts, but he stopped. Turned.  Went back.

“Gimli,” he said softly, his hand closing around Gimli’s arm.  “Gimli, you must come now.”

Gimli moved not, and Legolas pulled.  “Come, Gimli!  I will not leave you behind!”

Sluggish, clumsy, Gimli let Legolas draw him upright, tug him away.

They ran.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Galadriel gives Legolas some advice, and he and Gimli reach an understanding.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, we have some reconciliation. I apologize for glossing over the Fellowship's actual arrival, but I found that I didn't have anything new to say about it - and we all know what happens, anyway.

Legolas was no diplomat.

Long had he known it – and often had cause to rue the fact, on this Quest not least – but he had at least been able to console himself with the thought that it would hardly be needed.  His father was still hale and strong – if millennia-old griefs did dull the sparkle in his eyes, those eyes were at least clear and sharp – and even in the longest of long chances that his father were to fall, or to sail, it was Laerwen who stood to inherit, not Legolas.  Laerwen who was deadly and graceful with blade and word alike, who spoke and listened with the same clear-eyed sharpness that their father had always shown, who knew when to give way and when to stand firm, who knew how to compromise without giving way entirely, a skill Legolas had never learned.

Many were the times he had wished his sister here instead.

But she was not.

She was not, and Legolas was, and now he had to do his best to put the years of court training (that had never quite seemed to take) into action, body weary and heart heavy with grief, to negotiate for passage for seven other traveling companions who could barely stand him through the golden wood of Lothlorien, where Legolas himself had never visited.

And he cursed himself for this, too – that someone with more talent might have been able to explain their purpose less clumsily, to defend Gimli more handily, instead of giving in to pressure and forcing a blindfold upon a companion who already had no reason to love him.  Might have had the sense not to gain a tongue just in time to protest his own blindfolding, to further wear the bonds between companions that were already so close to snapping.  Might have been able to –

Might have been able to talk them out of Moria with more than a weak personal protest, easily overruled.  Might have been able to prevent Mithrandir’s fall.

He was the weakest link of this Company, Legolas knew.  Skilled in battle, perhaps, but in nothing else, and there was a reason they had not traveled in force.  And as they were led up to the tree where Celeborn – kin to him, true, but only distantly – and Galadriel resided, where he would doubtless be asked to attempt more of his ever-clumsy diplomacy –

Where Galadriel smiled kindly upon Gimli, and soothed his grief with words kinder than Legolas’s hurried pleas for him to move, to escape, to free himself from the grief that the death of his kinsmen had brought –

Where Gimli looked upon her with a touched and awed expression and declared her fairer than all jewels beneath the earth –

\--the shame of it wedged its way into Legolas’s throat and choked him more securely than any _shyness_ ever could.

And then she met his eyes.

Her stare pierced, not like his father’s did but gentler and yet more thorough; her mind eased slowly through his eyes until their spirits mingled, and Legolas breathed _out_.

The song of her spirit was deeper, purer, stiller than any he had ever heard – and yet at the same time so bright, like a sunbeam piercing all the way to the darkest depths of a lake.  His thoughts were open to hers, in a way he had never learned or even wanted to close them off, and he did not try to push her away, but opened them and presented himself to the Lady – all he was, all his hopes and fears, all his shame, all his failure.  He could not hide it from her; she would know, and so he gave it to her freely, to judge him as she would.

He felt her mind move through it all, a fish through water, barely making a mark on the collected mass of his thoughts, and at the end of it he waited, and she smiled.

He felt her mind laugh inside his, a ripple spreading the water throughout, and he warmed in a way he had not expected.  _My Lady?_ he asked, tentatively, knowing she could hear him.

 _I can see that the Ring has been the least of your troubles on this journey,_ came her voice to him, deep but lightened with amusement.

He knew that on the outside his face was the same: transfixed in the light of her gaze, but inside he frowned, and would have questioned further, when something warm rippled through him.

_You have no desire for power, have you, son of Thranduil?  Only –_

Her mental voice broke off, then, and she showed him, instead: showed him his companions, his sister, his friends from home.  Their faces took on a new radiance behind her light, shining golden and precious, and he wished to reach for them, only he could not – he could not –

_It is not my mind that depicts them thus, but yours.  Your fear is no weakness, but your love gives you strength.  Your friends will give you strength._

_They are not –_

_But they would be, and you would have them._   Her mind smiled again upon his.  _Go to them, Greenleaf.  They will not turn you away._

And then she withdrew, her mind freeing itself from his and her eyes turning away.  But even as she turned to Aragorn, and Legolas slumped a little at the sudden loss, he thought she smiled upon him.

 _Go to them, Greenleaf_.  He breathed in.

He would try.

* * *

“Gimli.”

The musical voice that spoke from the trees was still somewhat unfamiliar to Gimli – from the scarcity of occasions that it deigned to speak to him, he thought grumpily – but more familiar, in any case, than any other of its particular lilting, _elvish_ timbre.  “Master Legolas.”  He turned to face the speaker, automatically tensing and squaring his shoulders and making no effort to sweeten his own tone.  If the elf had wanted a more cheerful reception, he should have made more of an effort to earn it.

“I” – Legolas’s face was different somehow, his eyes seeming larger than usual even as they shifted from side to side.  In front of him, Gimli could see his hands clasped together, thumbs rubbing quickly and repetitively over the lower segments of the opposite fingers.  Gimli thought idly that he had never seen an elf fidget before.  Legolas took a deep breath and began again.  “Would you walk with me?”

Gimli raised his eyebrows.  They were already tipped back, simply from looking up at the elf; he felt even shorter in comparison when sitting, but made no effort to rise.  “I’ve no wish to be led somewhere I won’t be allowed the use of my senses, Master Elf.  What’ll it be this time – earplugs?  A hand tied behind my back?”  He flexed his fingers, making sure to curl them into half-fists, and watched the flick of Legolas’s eyes down to them with some satisfaction.

Legolas flushed, skin darkening, and licked his lips.  “No, I – it is” – He hesitated.  His thumbs rubbed harder, enough that Gimli could actually hear the rasp of skin on skin.  “It is no matter.  I will not disturb you again.”  His voice had hardened into a more familiar tone, the detached chill that Gimli had heard from him so often already.  And it was perhaps this that gave Gimli pause – the contrast between this familiarity and the tone of earlier, because he could have sworn that what he had heard was uncertainty.

He stood when Legolas turned to walk away.  “I said not that you should leave,” he said abruptly, surprising himself.  Surprising Legolas, too, if the way he turned around suddenly was any indication.  “If I need not be blindfolded, I would walk with you and see the beauty that has until now been hidden from me.”  Courtesy didn’t have to mean forgetting the grudge he owed Legolas, after all.

“Nay,” Legolas said, and the look in his eyes was different still from anything Gimli had seen.  “You need not.”

* * *

“I am sorry.”  The words fell into the silence between them after a ways, when they were well clear of the area where the rest of the Fellowship had been sitting and any alert ears.  More followed, tumbling from Legolas’s mouth like a rush of autumn leaves torn from branches.  “About the blindfold, and about – your kinsmen.  You have more to mourn than the rest of us, and I – I deeply regret that my actions have added to your grief.”

Gimli actually stopped short in astonishment.  Legolas stopped with him, and his hands whipped almost immediately around to clamp together again.  The motion drew Gimli’s eyes, and at the sight of those slender fingers twined together, a sense memory rose up within him.  Kneeling, weeping before Balin’s tomb, blind and numb with despair born of fear and grief, making no effort to run with the others, because there was no hope left in any place – when long fingers closed around his wrist and a hand tugged him upright with unexpected strength, while a soft voice murmured in his ears –

Gimli looked from Legolas’s hands to his face, eyes appraising it anew.  “It seems to me that your actions also aided to reduce it,” he said softly.  “Or do I remember wrongly who pulled me from Balin’s tomb?”

Legolas hesitated, but Gimli needed no answer.  The memory had resolved itself clearly – the only reason it had taken so long was the voice, the kindness in that tone that had never been directed at him before.

“Why?” he asked then, looking squarely up to meet Legolas’s eyes.  “Why did you save me then?”

Legolas flushed again, eyes bright with indignation.  “We are a fellowship!” he snapped.  Then the anger in his face faded and turned to sadness – and guilt.  “You thought I would have left you behind?”

Now Gimli’s own face felt warm, and he resisted the urge to look away.  Put so, it sounded much less reasonable than he had thought. “What else could I think?” he asked.  “I know you dislike me – you have ever been cold and distant.”

That sounded more petulant than he would have liked, but he could not help it – his mind flashed back to the stony silences of old, the curt rebuffs to his attempted friendly advances.

But he saw the dismay in Legolas’s face, and the way his hands continued to wring one another.  “Nay, I – I do not” – he started, and then his mouth clamped shut again.  And all of a sudden Gimli remembered his silence earlier, and the cold dismissive tone that was so familiar – and he began to realize.

Legolas’s mouth opened and closed once more, his thumbs rubbing again at his fingers.  Gimli could see definite chafe marks forming there, reddish and painful-looking, and he understood.  He reached out for the folded hands and pried them gently apart.  “Here, now,” he said, hoping his sudden flash of intuition had been right.  “You’re hurting yourself.”  The hands twitched as though to return to their former position, so he kept them in his own.  “I think I begin to understand,” he continued.

“You” –

Legolas did not finish, but looked down at him with such bewildered gratitude that Gimli squeezed his fingers.  “Speak, Legolas,” he said, his earlier ire all but faded away, replaced with only a desire to understand.  “Your words are safe with me.  Speak, and I will listen.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On their first day in Lorien, Legolas and Gimli work out the beginnings of a friendship.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to warn you that people will occasionally refer to Legolas as "shy," even though in my head he has what we would call severe anxiety. I just didn't think they would have a word for it.

After the Fellowship had finally finished their evening meal (the hobbits loudly declaring their satisfaction with the fare of the Lorien elves – and the size of the portions), the mortal members all announced their intentions to sleep.  Legolas was not tired, however; the whole of the forest tingled with a power he had never felt before – a power no one spoke of aloud, though its source was not unknown to him – that hummed in his veins, a power that gave him more strength than any amount of sleep.  And even had he wanted, he did not think he could have found rest this night.  Nervous energy still pulsed through him, along with the dose of euphoria that had come of finally, _finally_ managing to lower his walls to a companion, and the shaky fear that he did not know how to push away, that nagged at him that it had been a bad idea.

He rose with the others from where they had spread out their feast, but did not follow them to the _talans_ – and spaces beneath the trees – where they had been given beds, with the thought to walk or perhaps climb until his energy was spent.  Or perhaps –

Someone was following him.  Footsteps lighter than those of most mortals, but not quite light enough to be an elf.  Aragorn.

Legolas turned to face him without hesitation.  After their loss in Moria, after their audience with the Lady, he felt as though some of the boundaries between him and the Fellowship had broken down. And now that he had managed to make himself understood to the person he had most offended, speaking to Aragorn would be easy.  “Are you not also weary?” he asked.  “You are more familiar with these woods than any of us – surely you will be able to find untroubled rest here.”

“I wished to speak to you.”  Aragorn smiled at him – a tired smile, to be sure, but warm all the same.  “It seemed to me that you and Gimli had made your peace, and I wished to know how you were faring.”

“I am well,” Legolas said, and felt as he said it that it was true.  “Or, as well as I may be, after” – But now was not the time to speak of that.  “But I thank you for asking.  You need not worry: Gimli and I will be no more source of division in the Fellowship.  Or, I think not.”  That familiar coldness surged up within his chest; his heart sped up without his permission.  “I know not if he sees things differently” –

“Legolas,” Aragorn said, laying a hand on his shoulder.  “Be easy.  I did not mean to alarm you; it seems only that you are easier with the rest of us than you were before, and I sought to ask after the change.  If you are willing to tell me, of course.”

“There is little to tell,” Legolas admitted.  “I merely received some good advice, and – and sought to take it.”

Aragorn smiled at him.  “I see,” he said.  “Then I will leave you to your night, and get some sleep.  Until tomorrow, Legolas.”

“Until then.”

* * *

Legolas returned to them the next morning while they were all eating breakfast, leaping lightly down from a tree near where their food had been spread.  “Good morning,” he said, settling down between Sam and Aragorn and scooping a handful of berries from the dish in the center of the spread.  “I trust everyone’s night was restful?”

There was a chorus of affirmatives from the hobbits, who had all turned to watch Legolas closely.  Gimli did the same.  Something seemed different about him today, though Gimli could not have told what it was – was it in his face, his voice, even something so subtle as the way he moved?  Legolas seemed to notice all of their eyes on him, and he ducked his head forward, dark hair falling around his face in a sheet.

He was so different from the elves here, at least from what Gimli had seen.  As lithe and graceful, perhaps, but he was dark where they were fair, and he seemed so strange in manner as well.  Not so wise and self-assured as the Lady – and Gimli felt his face and heart grow warm just thinking of her – but neither was he so light-hearted as the elves whose songs had filtered in through the branches last night, or even the other Mirkwood elves Gimli had seen before.  In fact – particularly in light of their conversation yesterday, well –

Gimli had simply never heard before of a _shy_ elf.

As though summoned by the thought, Legolas’s eyes swung around to meet Gimli’s.  Gimli tensed instinctively, instincts honed by months of travel and years of idle talk in the Mountain – _be on your guard around elves_ – but Legolas was smiling at him, dark eyes open, lips turned up almost hopefully.  Gimli relaxed even before he consciously intended to.

Aragorn was looking at them, he noticed.  Gimli caught his eye and looked right back, then turned as pointedly as he could back to his breakfast.  He had nothing to explain, and if Aragorn thought he did – let him ask.

Conversation as they ate was subdued, their loss still too near – despite the healing power of the woods – to sustain true mirth.  But after some time, Legolas rose – gracefully but wordlessly – from his cross-legged position.  Gimli wondered if he planned to disappear again, as he had the night before. But instead he stepped around behind the hobbits, moving around the circle in which they had all sat – and just as Gimli was craning his neck to follow his movements, he felt a tap on his shoulder.

“Will you walk awhile with me today, Gimli?” Legolas’s voice was soft, his hand hovering in the air above Gimli’s shoulder as though unsure whether to alight there once more.

Gimli sighed, put-upon, though a smile had begun tugging at the corners of his mouth.  “I suppose I could reconcile myself to your company.”  He debated with himself for a moment, and then continued.  “If only because the march-warden is not present to grace me with his.”

Legolas started, looking from Gimli’s face to his own outstretched hand – and then, to Gimli’s shock, he threw his head back and laughed.

Something in Gimli’s chest caught at the sound: it was a laugh so bright, so merry, that he could see smiles forming on the faces of the company; the most unrestrained noise he had ever heard from Legolas before.  And though he could not hold back his own responding chuckle, the tug in his chest was almost like grief – as though mourning the time he had lost to misunderstanding, to resenting Legolas when he could have been hearing this laugh instead.

But he shook his head to brush aside the thought and reached up to close his hand around Legolas’s, letting himself be hauled to his feet.  “Lead on, then, Master Elf.  I place myself entirely at your will.”

“I will ensure you do not regret it,” promised Legolas, keeping Gimli’s hand in his even once he was on his feet.  His smile turned impish.  “Much.”

With another peal of bright laughter, he turned to run off into the trees, tugging Gimli along behind him.  Gimli gave a long-suffering sigh, but he kept hold of Legolas’s hand, and followed.

* * *

Legolas kept Gimli’s hand in his for longer than was strictly necessary to pull him to his feet, even to lead him off into the forest.  He should have let go, he knew, but there was something steadying about the strong, broad palm pressed against his own, the calloused fingers wrapped around his.  So he stayed a few steps ahead of Gimli, hoping that pulling him along would be enough of an excuse not to let go.

Gimli allowed it for a few moments, and then tugged his hand gently free.  Legolas let him go without incident, tightening his fingers around empty air the moment after it was gone.  “So, where do you plan to take me?” Gimli asked, without a word about their hands.

Legolas shrugged.  “In truth, I know not,” he said.  “But I have never seen these woods before, and I would explore them while I may – and I thought, given your admiration for the Lady, it would please you to see more of her home.”

Gimli’s cheeks reddened, and his eyes lowered, and the sight filled Legolas with delight – perhaps, that this figure that he had admired – indeed, nearly feared – for so long had a softer side, a side he was now willing to show Legolas.  But his embarrassment, if that was indeed what it was, was not present in his speech.  “Though their beauty be dimmed by even the memory of her radiance, I would gladly see the glory of the trees she calls home,” he said.  Then he gave a smile that seemed it was for Legolas alone.  “And I thank you for thinking of me in this.  I know not how else I would have occupied my time here.”

Legolas was warm and light all over, feeling as though the fallen leaves barely bent under his feet.  “I am sure you would have found something,” he said.  “The hobbits, surely, will be making it their goal to locate every source of food in the wood, and they would certainly have welcomed your company.”  He glanced sideways at Gimli, wondering if they were at this level of jesting yet?  His last attempts to poke fun at his companions had gone so terribly wrong, after all.  And yet – after their conversation yesterday, it was as though something had broken down.  As though the touch of Gimli’s hands and the kindness of his listening had given him a freedom to speak that he had never experienced outside of his own woods – away from his own family, and his few friends.

And it seemed they were, for Gimli loosed a great burst of laughter: a hearty, rumbling sound that seemed to come from deep in his belly.  Legolas had heard this laugh before – often directed at Merry or Pippin, and once or twice at a story Boromir had told around the campfire.  But never before had it been because of _him_ , and he found himself laughing as well, in relief as much as amusement.

When they both calmed, Legolas found that Gimli was looking at him closely.  “Your laugh,” he said.

“What?” That too-familiar coldness spiked in Legolas’s chest; a hand flew to press against his lips.  “Should I not” –

“No, no!” said Gimli, the words tumbling out of his mouth in a haste unusual to him.  “No, you _should_.  I had not heard you laugh often – if at all.  It is a sound that could set the forest itself to mirth.”

And now Legolas was blushing, he could feel it.  “Thank you,” he murmured, looking down, but feeling the corners of his mouth creep up nonetheless.

* * *

They walked farther through the trees, and the beauty of the leaves under dappled sunlight – turning the shadows themselves into molten gold – could not disappoint Gimli’s eyes.  He had never found such beauty in a forest before, but these trees were radiant with sun and the light, it seemed, of the Lady Galadriel herself, and the beauty was unlike anything he had ever seen.

Legolas seemed to find it beautiful as well – after a time, their conversation lapsed into silence and Gimli saw that Legolas’s face seemed transported: lips open in an almost bewildered delight, eyes wide and shining with unabashed wonder.  Gimli could not help but smile as well when he saw it: for all Legolas had probably lived his own life ten times over, he looked like a child who had seen a gem for the first time.

Seeing the elf so unguarded was a treasure Gimli had never expected to receive, and he felt all the more honored that it had been gifted to him – so he was careful not to make any sudden movements that might startle Legolas back into shyness.

After a few moments of walking thus in silence, Legolas began to sing.

This was not new; the sound of his voice was familiar from the long miles of walking.  Legolas had often acted as rearguard, of course, so his voice was usually lost in large part to the wind, but Gimli had caught snatches of tune and words – often ones he didn’t recognize – floating up to where he walked.  And a few times around the fire, Aragorn had managed to coax Legolas into singing with him.  But this – this was different, somehow.  No words, not at first, anyway, but a hummed and then voiced melody that sounded somehow less polished, less structured, than the lays he had sung at other times.

He wondered, too – he was almost more familiar with Legolas’s voice in song than in speech, and he would have to ask about that someday – but now, words began to filter into the melody, in a language Gimli did not know, but they were – once more – different.

“What do you sing?” he asked.

Legolas started, then looked at him.  “Ah.  Shall I” –

“No, you need not stop!” said Gimli hastily.  He was starting to understand why their early conversations had been so difficult – how had he not noticed before how easily Legolas was cowed by the slightest hint of seeming displeasure?  “I was simply curious – it sounds different from what I have heard from elves before.”

“Ah.” It was hard to tell, but Gimli thought Legolas might be blushing.  “This is not exactly – well.  You would not have heard this song before.”

“Why?  Is it something particular to your father’s court?  I admit I have not heard much singing from elves outside Rivendell” –

“No.”  Legolas was definitely flushed now.  “It is – rather, it is something particular to me.  It is unfinished, of course, but” –

“Were you – making that up?” Gimli stared.

Legolas looked down at where his hands had begun to fidget once more, fingers twisting together.  Wondering at himself even as he did it – when had he become so willing to touch an elf with so little provocation? – Gimli touched his wrists to still them.  “There is no shame!” he said quickly.  “I was merely admiring, if you can come up with such a song on your own, with so little time.”

“Ah.”  Legolas continued to watch his fingers intently.  “Well – much of it is the trees, of course.  What they do not sing to me directly, they inspire me to dream up.  It is more that I am able to give voice to the songs they cannot sing aloud.”

“Well.  It is lovely,” Gimli promised him.  “And you need not stop on my account.”

Legolas smiled at him, and then stiffened abruptly, face tensing.  He turned, straightening up and bracing himself: in _front_ of Gimli, as though to shield him from something.  But from what? – and then the elves appeared.

They could have been some of the ones they had met yesterday, but they could have also been entirely unfamiliar – Gimli could not say that elf faces had become so familiar to him.  Still, their faces were set in smiles of irritating smugness, and Gimli felt indignation rise up within him, but clenched his teeth, preparing himself to be polite to the subjects of the Lady –

Who proceeded to ignore him completely, talking only to Legolas in a language Gimli did not speak.

At first Legolas looked flustered, his face still flushed from his conversation with Gimli – or perhaps from something these elves were saying?  They were smiling at him, so perhaps – but then one of them cut his eyes to the side towards Gimli and said something that – while Gimli could not understand it – sounded decidedly rude.

The change in Legolas was instantaneous.  His face closed down, his eyes snapping, the flustered smile straightening into a flat line.  When he spoke, it was in Westron, and in a tone as cold as the one he had used on Gimli at the first.  Colder.

“That is Gimli, son of Glóin,” he said, “my companion and honored guest of your Lady.  I will not hear such words directed at him.”  He closed a hand around Gimli’s wrist.  “Enjoy the fine day as you will, but find another companion.”  And, without giving them a chance to speak further – or Gimli a chance to reply – he brushed past the elves and continued into the forest, tugging Gimli along with him.

Gimli stared.  He moved along with Legolas as he was bade, following the pulling at his wrist, but his mind was frozen in disbelief at all that had transpired, and he felt he could not find the words.

“Legolas” – he said at last.

“Wait,” came the voice, still cold and tense, and they moved a little deeper into the trees.  At last Legolas stopped, let go his wrist, and tilted his head to the side, as if listening.  Finally satisfied with whatever he heard, he looked back at Gimli.  “I apologize,” he said quietly.  “They had no right” –

“Legolas,” Gimli tried again.  “What just happened?”

Legolas’s lips pressed together for a moment before he spoke.  “The Lady’s people do not all share her courtesy, it seems,” he said.  “Or are unaccustomed to the sight of dwarves in their midst – either way, they had no right to speak as they did” –

Gimli blinked at him.  “And you” –

Legolas tilted his head further to the side and lifted a shoulder as he did so, pressing it into his ear in a gesture that seemed half shrug, half hunch.  “It is easier, perhaps, to react to discourtesy than to politeness,” he said.  “At least, I have always found it so.”

He looked at Gimli almost apologetically, and Gimli realized that this was his way of apologizing for their earlier interactions.  And what an apology!  The look on Legolas’s face, he thought – it was like the one he had worn when fighting the wolves, or the Orcs in – but he would not think of that, not now.  The important thing, now, was the way Legolas had stood in front of him, had spoken up for him in the way Gimli had always thought he was speaking _to_ him: icy dignity and ire.

 _He means it_ , he realized, and his heart grew warm.

“And you would not have thought the same?” he asked aloud.  “I know your people are not fond of dwarves” –

“Have, perhaps,” said Legolas, “but not so much. In truth I had little opportunity to concern myself with dwarves – it is my sister who has undertaken the diplomatic missions to Erebor.  Perhaps you have met her?”

Gimli thought back, but he could recall no elf-princess visiting their halls.  “I think not,” he said.  “But if you would – I would hear of your sister, if you would tell me.”  He had never imagined himself asking such a question before, but he found himself wanting to know Legolas, to understand more of this unlikeliest of companions.

And he knew once he spoke that it had been right: a smile bloomed once more on Legolas’s face, bright and touched.  “I would,” he said.  “Only after – you must tell me of your family.  Of your parents, and your siblings if you have them, and, Gimli” –

He paused, mouth open as though he would continue, and then closing abruptly.  Already attuned, Gimli watched the muscles in his wrists tense, and spoke before the twitching could begin again.  “And?”

“And if you would,” Legolas said softly, “when you feel ready to speak of it – I would hear of your fallen kin.  If an elf may be permitted – I would add another to the people who will remember them.”

Gimli’s throat felt too tight to speak, but he managed, gruffly, “I would be glad to.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did warn you about the handholding. Buckle up, friends: you've boarded the ride of self-indulgent fluff.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While walking in the Golden Wood, Legolas opens up about his fears, and he and Gimli solidify their friendship.

“Why?” Gimli asked.

They were walking in the forest once more, and Legolas would have been content to do nothing else for the next several years; the mallorns were the most beautiful trees, free of the darkness and shadow that had so infected his own home.  The section they were in now was younger-growth, the trees but saplings in comparison to those that housed the Lady and Lord, and even most of the other elves.  Gimli had mentioned that he could not tell, so large were they, but their youth was revealed in their stature and their song.  They rose gracefully into the air with a spring and a liveliness, not yet the stately dignity of their older cousins, and their voices were brighter and quicker, song a cheerful harmony that danced like the sun through their gold-glimmering leaves and followed the path of the merrily-rushing stream that gave direction to Gimli and Legolas's wanderings.  It was a song that let Legolas feel his own youth the way he was unable to in the dark watchfulness of his own home, or even elsewhere, in the company of those who did not know him, had not spent all his years by his side –

One of whom was here now, with a hand on his forearm, shaking gently.  “Legolas!”

Gimli’s voice was annoyed, and Legolas stiffened involuntarily, walls slamming back up.  “I” – He snapped back to himself; defensiveness faded into chagrin.  “My apologies, I – you were speaking?”

“No need for apology.”  Gimli’s hold loosened, but he kept his hand on Legolas’s arm.  There was something solid about Gimli’s touch, Legolas had found, that helped hold together the bits of him that always seemed to fly apart when someone spoke to him.  He felt himself leaning into the feeling, pressing his arm into Gimli’s hand.  “Still your shaking, now; you know you need not fear me.”  The pressure changed; Gimli turned Legolas to face him and gripped his other arm as well, grounding him in the solid stone of his presence.  Legolas felt himself breathe out.  “I was merely wondering that you can sing so freely, yet close and stiffen when the time comes to speak.”

“But singing and speaking are not the same,” protested Legolas.  Truthfully, he had not even noticed that he was singing.  “I sing for my ears and those of the trees – and trees ask no questions that demand correct answers, and their courtesies are simple.  Singing need not be performance, Gimli, but speech always demands a listener.”

“But why do you fear the listeners so?” persisted Gimli, and this, Legolas could see, he had been wishing to ask since their first conversation.  For all they had spoken, as personal, even, as their speech had become, they had avoided this subject since the beginning.  Legolas had been waiting, of course, for Gimli to bring it up – had, in fact, admired the restraint that kept the questions down for so long.  “I can see it with such majestic personages as the Lady, or even the Lord Elrond.  But we are your Fellowship, Legolas, and would fain be your friends.  You have naught to fear from us.”

“Nay, perhaps not, but” – It was easier, now, with Gimli, but he knew the feeling well enough to describe it without reaching too far.  “I feel such a fool, Gimli, for all that you say is known to me.  And I envy you – for all that I have lived so many of your lifetimes I hear you speak and am amazed by the power and ease of your words.  You speak as a waterfall uninhibited – so strong and quick and ready.  And if speech be water, I am but a dammed stream – my throat closes around the words that would flow forth, until they are but drops, or naught at all.”  He looked down, lower than needed to meet Gimli’s eyes, focusing instead on the fall of beard. “I move to speak and feel I will fly to pieces.”

“And yet you are no dammed stream now,” Gimli noted.  One of his hands released Legolas’s arm to touch his chin; startled, Legolas jerked his gaze up and their eyes met.  Gimli nodded in satisfaction.  “I have heard more words from you in our few days in this wood than in all of the weeks we have traveled together.  Dare I hope you fear me no more?”

It should not have, but the question took Legolas aback; he blinked a few times before he could answer and then slowly shook his head, feeling his muscles loosen even as he did so.  “Nay, I – I can speak to you now, Gimli, where I could not before, and I thank you for it.  Ever you have spoken so readily and so well that I thought your ears not prepared to listen with kindness – and yet I see now that that is not the case.  Forgive me, if you would.”

“You need no forgiveness,” said Gimli gruffly, squeezing Legolas’s arm and going a bit red himself, “but if you wish for mine, then you have it gladly.  You were ever so silent, Legolas, that I thought you unwilling to speak to us, thinking yourself too high – do not laugh,” he warned, when Legolas’s mouth quirked into a tiny smile, “too high above the rest of us to lower yourself to our level.  In less charitable moments I thought you simply unintelligent.  And yet I find that you can speak with as much grace as any, so long as your listener is ready to hear you.  I would have you pardon me, as well, that for so long I was not.”

Legolas laughed, feeling lighter than he had in so long, even despite the still-heavy burden of Mithrandir’s death.  In this place out of time, that grief had been eased slightly even as his comfort with the Fellowship had increased, and with Gimli most of all.  “If we are to ask for more pardoning,” he said, “we shall eventually be pleading pardons so far back that we attempt to root out the source of our people’s feuds.”  There was a pause for the moment as they both thought of Mithrandir – and Legolas remembered, too, the request he had made of them: _I beg you two, at least, to be friends_.  “Failing that, shall we agree to forgive one another our trespasses, and move forward with understanding?”

“And be friends, as Gandalf bade us?” finished Gimli, understanding.  “We are friends, now, Legolas, are we not?”

“Yes,” Legolas agreed, and something warm fluttered to life in his stomach.  “We are friends.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now that Legolas has worked things out with Gimli, the rest of the Fellowship is easier. Their road, however, is not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More drabbles. These just seemed the best way to get the Fellowship from place to place without expositing too much. Also, I dunno if the Boromir thing is out of character, but I've read a few stories where Legolas has some understanding of what Boromir is facing with the Ring because of his own position as a member of the royal family of Mirkwood, a place that has been under the shadow of Sauron for a really long time. Even though my Legolas is different in character from a lot of other people's, I wanted to include a shadow of that, even if it's not spoken directly.

It was a pleasure to watch Legolas warm up to the rest of the Fellowship.  Before, Gimli had thought him cold and disdainful, esteeming only Gandalf and Aragorn worthy of his attention and scorning the others.  Now that he knew the truth, he worked at coaxing Legolas out of his shell, and subtly encouraging others to join him.

It was a struggle, at first – was almost amusing, how such a brave warrior could be intimidated by the charming hobbits.  But the first time Legolas burst into laughter at one of Merry’s jokes, Gimli felt all his efforts had paid off.

* * *

When they departed Lothlorien, winding their way down the river in boats that felt too flimsy to support any of Gimli’s weight, Legolas did most of the paddling at first.  Gimli was far too occupied with fingering the small leather pouch in his breast pocket.

“Never in my life,” he said hoarsely, “have I received such a priceless treasure.”

“Never in her life has any other,” responded Legolas.  “Truly, I am honored to call you my friend.”

He turned at last and smiled broad and honest, and Gimli thought that perhaps he had been gifted with more than one treasure.

* * *

The call grew stronger after leaving Lothlorien, but at the same time weaker – for now, it would have Legolas bargain his very soul for a twisted version of something he had already found.

 _You would not need to fear them,_ repeated the voice in his head, and for a moment it was strong enough that he _wanted_ it, wanted to creep over to where Frodo lay and take the chain from around his neck –

Gimli shifted in his sleep, giving a sudden loud snore.  Legolas sat back and let out his breath.  _I do not_ , he said to the voice.

* * *

Gollum was following them again.

Legolas had hoped they had lost him in Lorien, that their long stay beneath the Golden Wood that repelled all evil had disoriented him, or frightened him away.

“He follows again,” he whispered to Aragorn.

Aragorn sighed.  “I feared he would.  I think _It_ senses its peril – the temptation grows stronger.  Do you not feel it?”

Legolas nodded, and looked at the rest of their Company, all grown quieter than ever.  His eyes rested on Boromir: ever tense, worried, but now with a determination in his eyes that frightened Legolas.  “I think we all do.”

* * *

“I worry for him,” Legolas breathed into Gimli’s ear, settling beside him.

“Frodo?”

“And Boromir also.” Legolas’s voice sank further.  “I feel its call strengthening – do you not?”

“I do,” Gimli admitted.  “But why worry for Boromir alone?”

“He has the least to lose, and most to gain.  His city, his people, his honor.”

“Think you the rest of us have naught to gain?”  Gimli’s eyebrows rose.  “Can it offer you nothing, that you worry for others and not yourself?”

“It does, but” – Legolas hesitated.  “What it would offer me, I have already gained.”

And his tentative smile said everything.

* * *

There were times, still, when Gimli forgot about Legolas’s strength.

But those times were not now: not after watching him stand tall and tense on shore, taut and lithe as a wildcat ready to spring, bow drawn and aiming at something even he could scarcely see.  Not after hearing his sighed prayer, then the mighty thrum of his bowstring – and the cries of a monster as it fell to his arrow.

“That was a mighty shot in the dark!” Gimli praised, and even as Legolas blushed and demurred, he could still see the power and ferocity behind his friend’s eyes.

* * *

Things had fallen apart.

Their Fellowship broken, four friends lost and one dead, Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli stood together at the shore of the Anduin.  After so long – too long – debating the choice of path, all of their paths were taken from them.

They stood on the riverbank, watching the falls carry Boromir away, and raised their voices in lament.  Legolas sang, this time, not for himself, but for the dead – and for the two living companions who stood beside him.

Beside him, he felt Gimli take his hand, and the warmth gave him new hope.

They would press on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I also realized perhaps I should credit the people who gave me the idea about Boromir: those authors would be Thundera Tiger, UnnamedElement, and Nimue on ff.net.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After their long run, and their first day of riding, Gimli is on watch. He takes the time to think about some things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel kind of bad about how short these two chapters are, so I decided to put them both up today. I skipped over most of the run, because honestly I don't think they all had much time to talk during that time, save for occasional words on the trail. I think they would have wanted to save their breath for running, and collapsed pretty much immediately each night.

The stars were very bright.

Legolas would be pleased, Gimli thought – or perhaps he was; it was impossible to know how much he was able to perceive in that strange open-eyed repose.  For Gimli, though, they offered little comfort.

It was well enough the first watch had fallen to him; even Legolas could not stay awake much longer, it seemed; not after days of running and nights of wakefulness.  He had not slept, Gimli was sure, any of the nights they had run; even worry for their small friends had not been enough to keep Gimli awake a moment longer after falling supine to the ground, and he knew Aragorn had fared likewise. But Legolas, with his elven resilience and his own peculiar personality, had been unable even to rest.  Gimli had seen the toll that his concern took on him, and had wondered, yet again, how he could ever have thought Legolas hard-hearted.  But now, with horses to call their own and at the eave of a forest that may well house their friends – they would have to hope – well and alive, exhaustion had been too much for him and now he lay resting beside Aragorn, who had similarly dropped off within moments.

But Gimli had done little today but cling to Legolas’s waist, even dozing against his back once or twice, for all the horse unsettled him; and though the exhaustion of their days-long run still wore on him, the edge had faded.  And now he was awake, kept so by both the duty of his watch and other, stranger thoughts.

 _He stands not alone_ , Legolas had said, his face cold and hard as a diamond-edged blade, his jaw set.  His hands had already readied his bow, and as close as he stood Gimli had felt the tension in his arms and core: taut, ready.  One more provocation and he would have loosed the arrow.  _You would die before your stroke fell_.

A shiver seized Gimli suddenly, for reasons he did not understand, and he drew closer to the fire.  Was he concerned, he wondered, at how easily things could have gone ill?  It was the same face, the same voice Legolas had used on the Galadhrim, that one day in the forest: detached, icy, with no patience for explanation.  Only then he had not moved to kill, and would not have.  The situations were different, Gimli supposed, only –

But that was not it, he thought.  He did not blame Legolas for nearly ruining their chances at getting the horses that now accompanied him (little as he might like it), or even for risking their lives at the hands of Éomer’s company.  Now, clear-eyed and a bit abashed, Gimli could admit that he had played a large enough part in that himself.  He was not often tactless, he tried to reason with himself; there were simply times when tact was called for and times when it was not, and surely insults to the Lady Galadriel fell into the latter situation?  Still, though, it had not been worth the risk to all of their lives.

But Legolas.

Legolas had leapt in front of him, practically shoved him aside, and spoken for him, had drawn weapons on a hundred and five (as he had so kindly pointed out) armed men, simply because their leader had threatened him.  And then –

And then when they had received their horses, Legolas had spoken for him again, had spoken for the two of them in the way Gimli had already become so accustomed to doing himself. _Come, you shall sit behind me, friend Gimli_ , he had said; Gimli remembered every word, and he could not think now to himself why that was.  Had allowed no protest and had clasped Gimli’s hand to help him onto the horse.

And Gimli had felt no resentment.  Had not wished Legolas silent, had not desired to prove to this friend of his that he was strong. For Legolas knew already that he was, and for all Gimli had become so accustomed to speaking for him, to protecting him, he had not felt the shame that he expected in holding tight to Legolas’s waist, trusting his friend with a horse not to let him fall.  Had felt, instead, taut muscle beneath his hands, reminder that his friend was a warrior as fierce as Gimli himself, and had not felt any need to prove himself.  Had felt, instead, suddenly glad that he was taken care of.

And now he did not know how to reconcile this thought to himself. He was a warrior in his own right, strong and proud; he needed no protection, but perhaps he did not mind Legolas’s.

And what did that mean?

In the corner of his eye, something changed. A lighter color, where there had not been one before – his gaze snapped up from the fire and fixed on the new figure that had appeared.  The figure of an old man.

Gimli sprang to his feet, hearing Legolas and Aragorn wake beside him.  They turned to face this newest threat, and Gimli’s thoughts were forgotten.

For now.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The battle at Helm's Deep is fought, and Legolas comes to a realization.

They spoke little, waiting on the Deeping Wall for the battle that approached.  Legolas perched on the edge of the wall, eyes bent on the foes in the distance.  Gimli stood beneath him, also quiet, but his solid presence was a comfort, and his ability to remain silent as much so.  It was an uneasy wait, anyway, and more so for Legolas with the view of the battle that his vision afforded.  From time to time he would turn his head and gaze down at Gimli, always making sure that Gimli was looking away before he let his concern show on his face.  The dwarf had mentioned his need for sleep some hours before, and Legolas wished that mortals could fall into reverie as could elves: anywhere, anytime.  Gimli would scoff if he voiced his concern, he knew; still, it worried him, knowing that his friend would go into battle less than fully rested. As though in return for the worried glances Legolas did not let him see, Gimli would reach up as well at times, to pat Legolas’s knee – the highest he could reach from where he stood.

Still silent, Legolas watched as the hosts of Isengard approached, hordes upon hordes of Orcs too many for him to count.  Far, far more than their own defenders, he thought, and the hopelessness of their position crushed upon his heart.  Still –

Still he had to hope.  Had to believe that this was not where it ended, that they would win through today to travel still further: to take Aragorn to Minas Tirith, to see their friends the hobbits again – all of them, Frodo and Sam too, once they had won their own secret battle.  To see a king in Gondor crowned again, and then to travel home, to look again upon his father’s face, to embrace his sister once more, to trade stories of their adventures with Eleniel –

“Gimli,” he said, breaking his own imposed silence.  His hand fumbled – grasped – and Gimli caught it, without seeming surprise.  “What will you do when you return home?”

“When I” – Those two words were all the surprise Gimli betrayed, and then he was quiet for a time.  “After I greet my parents once more, I suppose you mean, and report to my King.  Hmm.”  He thought, then yawned.  “All I can think of now is a soft, warm, well-proportioned bed.”  He smiled.  “Aye, one made for folk of proper size, no foolishly long arms and legs.”

“Foolish?” Legolas protested, but Gimli chuckled, and he laughed along.

“Yes,” Gimli said, nodding.  “A good, long sleep in my own comfortable bed.”  He looked up at Legolas then.  “And you, Master Elf?”

Legolas breathed deeply of air filled with the scent of fire and Orc, and made a face before turning back to the question.  “I will sing a duet with my sister,” he said.  “Out under the stars, with all the forest to hear us, we will praise the season, and the trees will sing with us.”  He smiled now, lost in thought, remembering.  “Laerwen has the loveliest voice, Gimli; clear as the Anduin in moonlight and precise as the point of a knife.”

“Lovelier than yours?” Gimli rumbled, his eyes twinkling.  “That would be an accomplishment indeed.”

Legolas felt himself flushing.  “Lovelier,” he insisted.  “But when we sing together, with all the wood and the wind joining us, it is more beautiful still.  The harmonies weave and soar, and the trees wave their branches, dancing and rustling” –

“It sounds beautiful,” said Gimli.  “I think I would like to hear such a music, if it is as fine as you describe it.”

“I would like for you to.”  Perhaps he could bring Gimli home with him, after they survived all this.  Could introduce him to his sister, and to his father, and show him the true hospitality of the Woodland Realm, not the prison that his father had found.  And perhaps then Gimli would show him his home in turn – ah, the thought of meeting a mountain filled with dwarves he did not know was not so appealing, but hearing their music, seeing the place where Gimli had spent his adult life – “Gimli, do you think” –

He did not get to finish.  At that moment, bright flames and loud shouts erupted from the Dike, and Legolas looked down to see that the battle had begun.

* * *

Gimli was tired, more tired than he thought was acceptable for a dwarf, particularly one as hardy as he.  He had said before that all he needed was a foe on which to try his axe, to content him, but here there were no foes for him to fight.  Legolas was shooting from the wall, the strangely wistful demeanor of before now hardened into icy focus, so Gimli had left him and followed Aragorn and Éomer, in the hopes for a true skirmish to wake him.

He found it pleasing at first simply to watch the others: Aragorn and Éomer fought well together, even an outsider could see, and for all that Gimli and Éomer had not made the greatest start, he liked the man well and was glad to see him safe.  Was glad, even, when the time came, to save his life – and he found that the rush of adrenaline that overcame him when shouting his accustomed battle-cry (even if there were no dwarves around to echo him), when swinging his axe in the familiar pattern, was enough to wake him, at least for now.

Legolas had run out of arrows when he reached the wall, and was looking anxiously around, fingers grasping at nothing.  “Two!” Gimli said, hoping to distract him.

It worked.  Legolas looked around and smiled.  “Two?  I have done better,” he said, and if it hadn’t been an earnest competition before, then it was now.

* * *

Hours and corpses and rounds and rounds of retrieved arrows later, the battle was still going on.  The Orcs had breached the walls, been driven back, tried once more.  Legolas had seen Gimli throw himself more than once into the thick of the battle, and every time he wished he himself were not so much more useful from a distance.  It rent his very heart not to know where Gimli was, and the reasons for that he would have to examine at another time, but now was time for more fighting.

He knelt at the top of the stair, bow bent and arrow at the ready, watching carefully as their men streamed back into the Hornburg, as Aragorn stubbornly remained behind, guarding them all.  Legolas waited, not concentrating on who had made it in, only to make sure that they were men and not Orcs.  All of his focus was on his bow, on the door, on making sure that Aragorn’s back was guarded.

“All who can have now got safe within, Aragorn!  Come back!”

Aragorn turned and ran, and Legolas covered him – and then!  He stumbled, lost focus, and Legolas’s heart leapt all the way into his throat even as the Orcs leapt forward at his friend.  The readied arrow took the first in the throat, but he had no more.  He was ready to spring down with his knife in his hand, but a boulder came hurtling down from the outer wall, and in the resulting confusion Aragorn made it safely within as well.

“Things go ill, my friends,” he said, looking wearier than Legolas had ever seen him.  But still, somehow, he radiated hope – that glowing crown that Legolas had once sworn he saw on Aragorn’s brow, though it was not always there in sight, always existed in spirit.

“Ill enough,” Legolas said in that spirit, “but not yet hopeless, not while we have you with us.”  He hesitated, for only now was he able to catalogue all those who had streamed in through the gate, and notice a conspicuous absence.  “Where is Gimli?”

“I do not know,” said Aragorn, and Legolas’s heart lodged itself in his throat again.  “I last saw him fighting on the ground behind the wall, but the enemy swept us apart.”

Legolas truly thought his heart stopped for a moment before beginning its pounding once more.  “Alas!  That is” – What was it?  What was this heart-shuddering fear, greater than the unease he had felt before the battle?  This ice, spreading over his insides?  “Evil news,” he finished, and reached out to press his hand against the cold stone, hoping it would steady him inside.

“He is stout and strong,” Aragorn said, his face sympathetic.  He reached a hand for Legolas’s shoulder.  “Let us hope that he will escape back to the caves.  There he would be safe for a while. Safer than we – such a refuge would be to the liking of a dwarf.”

Legolas swallowed.  His heart pounded once more within him, but still too fast and loud, echoing within his head.  “That must be my hope,” he said, though his voice was so faint he himself barely heard it.  He said more, he thought – spoke of his competition with Gimli, of his need for arrows – but he felt none of it.  And Aragorn left to check in with the others, and Legolas – for all that the battle still raged on, for all that he could not afford to let his guard down – sagged against the stone wall for a moment.

It was not even so much that Gimli was missing.  Well, it _was_ that; that was the most important thing.  But what was this distress – why was it so important?  Of course, he would have felt this fear for any friend, but this was more – or perhaps it was not _more_ , but it was different, powerful and poignant in a way that nothing else –

If Gimli had died?  An icicle stabbed through his chest and he had to press a hand to it, leaning more heavily on the wall.  No.  No, he could not even think of that.  Even to entertain the possibility – it was – no.  Simply – no.

He could not lose Gimli.  He knew not why, not now, but he knew that it would be – he could not.  That was all.

He sought arrows in a numb sort of haze, separated from the world around him in a way he could not afford to be, not now, not while the battle still raged, but – but – _Gimli_.

At some point, Aragorn reappeared.  “I ride with Theoden King at dawn,” he said.  “To end this interminable waiting one way or another – perhaps to our ruin, perhaps to theirs.  Do you come with us?”

Legolas’s fingers tightened around an arrow.  “Yes,” he said, and barely recognized his own voice.

Aragorn put a hand on his upper arm once more.  “He may be well, Legolas,” he said.  “Merely because we know not does not mean that he has fallen.”

“I know,” said Legolas, and still his voice sounded distant and strange in his own head.

Aragorn shook his head, but his look was not without sympathy.  “Come with me now,” he said.  “We will see how the others fare, and lend our aid where we can.”

Legolas knew that Aragorn was just trying to distract him – but it was also true that he would do no good here, fretting and moping as he was, and perhaps with Aragorn’s direction he could at least be of some use.  So he nodded and let himself be led.

* * *

Aragorn was capable of inspiring anyone: soldiers who were tired, wounded, frightened.  He jumped into skirmishes when aid was needed; helped wrap wounds here and there where men were tending to themselves so they could return to the fight; offered inspirational words to those whose spirits were flagging.  Legolas hovered behind him, useless and strange.  He saw the men watch him, knew their distaste for Aragorn's silent and witless shadow, and that closed him up still further.

For he  _was_ witless, he knew. Moving numbly, as though through almost-frozen honey, wishing he could speak and capable of saying nothing, worry for Gimli always grating at the back of his mind.  At times when the unease was most intense, he found himself reaching out, as though to take Aragorn’s hand – and always stopping before he could, remembering just in time.

There was more to this, he knew: more than worry for a friend, more even than the loss of a steady support.  More, in a way that he had never felt, never even tried to understand.  More, in a way that – he now realized – had been creeping slowly up on him since – ai, since when?  Since Lothlorien, perhaps, or even longer: since they had first met in Rivendell, and Gimli had held out his hand in friendship?

Aragorn stayed Legolas when he would have followed him up onto the wall.  “You are distracted, my friend,” he said gently.  “You will only be an easy target,” and Legolas could not even disagree with him.  So as Aragorn climbed up to observe the enemy – even to speak with them – Legolas remained below, and he thought.

He remembered that first meeting in Rivendell, remembered the sight of Gimli with the sun striking his hair and deepening his eyes: remembered the strength in his arms and the solidity in his stance.  He remembered their conversations in Lothlorien: the sudden gentleness where Gimli had only ever been defensive before; the calm that overtook him when Gimli took his hand; the pride when he had first made Gimli laugh.

His laugh – Legolas thought of his laugh, now, and another stabbing pain needled through his heart.

 _We ride to our ruin or to theirs_ , Aragorn had said.  There was little hope to make it through, now, but Legolas found that he did not even care.  He thought back to his conversation with Gimli before the battle had begun – about what they would do when they returned home.  He tried to conjure up the joy that thoughts of his home usually brought him, remembered his plans to sing with Laerwen beneath the trees, his thoughts of dancing and feasting with his friends and his kin, and – and the joy was gone, because somehow he had wound Gimli into those plans, woven thoughts of his friend into a place where Gimli should not have fit, and even now he was unable to unweave him.  He could not imagine the road ahead without his friend by his side.

That was more than friendship, he realized.  That was love: not the kind he felt for his father, or for his sister, or even for Eleniel, who shared no blood with him.  That was whole-heart, binding love: the kind that yoked two souls together and lasted for all eternity.

He stumbled backwards and leaned against the wall.  He could not decide whether to laugh or cry.

Above, there was a hail of arrows, and Aragorn came leaping down from the wall, landing in a crouch.  When he saw Legolas, he stopped and stared.

“Are you well, my friend?”

“I am a fool,” Legolas said.  “But I am as well as can be.”

Aragorn gave him a piercing look.  Legolas feared he would ask, would make him share this strange young truth in his heart before he was ready to speak of it.  But instead, Aragorn merely nodded.

And before either could say more, the archway of the gate exploded in a blast of fire, and there was no more time to think.

* * *

There was a forest.

A forest where none had been before, and Gandalf returned to them with the strangest of new hopes, and the sun risen and turning all the land golden.  Even amidst the stench of death and blood and smoke, it could not but give one hope.

And Legolas hoped, despite himself.  He remembered Aragorn’s words: they did not know, they had not seen their companion fall, it could simply be that he – that he –

“Legolas.”  Aragorn’s hand fell heavy on his shoulder, a smile in his voice.  “Legolas, look.”

Legolas looked.

From the Dike came a stream of people – Éomer, alive and well, and the warrior Gamling, and – and –

Legolas’s breath caught.

Gimli was as glorious as he had ever seen him: alive and whole and ringed with the just-risen sun.  He seemed to glow, and Legolas knew not if it was from the sunlight, or simply a radiance that his own heart had laid upon him.

For it was his heart, he knew.  With the sight of Gimli alive and whole once more, so came his heart: the last bit of certainty clicked into place.  His heart had chosen, and it would never unchoose.

A slanting sunbeam reflected off of Gimli’s hair, and turned it to fire, the most dazzling flames Legolas had ever seen.  He wanted to laugh, to cry, to rush forward and throw himself into Gimli’s arms and never let him go.  But then he realized – his _hair_.  Gimli’s helm was gone, and there was a bandage wrapped around his head, stained with blood – so he had been wounded, and who knew how serious the wound might be?  And now Legolas wanted again to run to him, to fix the bandage and stroke Gimli’s hair back from his face and hold him in his arms and keep him safe from every foe that might ever approach him – though he knew Gimli would not thank him for it.  But in all the conflicting feelings, the only thing he could do was keep still, and stare, and marvel.

And then Gimli spoke.

“Forty-two, Master Legolas!” he cried gaily, and Legolas was snapped back into the moment.  Gimli’s voice was as beautiful as ever, more so for how strong and hale it sounded, but he remembered abruptly – friends they might be, but that understanding, that truth in Legolas’s heart, was only in his own, at least for now.  “Alas, my axe is notched; the forty-second had an iron collar on his neck. How is it with you?”

The competition.  Yes.  Legolas cast his mind back, but the last that he could remember was the thirty-nine he had been at before Gimli had gone missing.  After that – he knew he had killed some more, but he knew not how many, and he knew also that he had ceased to care.  But Gimli expected an answer, and Legolas had none.

He thought back: he could conjure up firm memories of killing two Orcs, but he knew he had been in more skirmishes than that - was it possible he could have avoided killing any more?  Had he been so distracted?  Or was the distraction now, in that he had forgotten?

Finally he laughed.  It mattered not, and he wished not to admit that he had forgotten.  The ease between them was the thing that he had feared so much to lose, after all.  “You have passed my score by one,” he said finally – whether or not Gimli had won the competition, there was no doubt that he deserved to.  “But I do not grudge you the game, so glad am I to see you on your legs!”

The others spoke then, made their own reunions and shared their own tales of the battle in the night.  But Legolas spoke not – he merely moved towards Gimli and rested a hand on his shoulder.  Gimli’s own hand rose to wrap around Legolas’s, and they merely smiled, drinking in the sight of one another.

Perhaps their understanding did not yet exist – not in so many words.  But now, simply being alive and together was enough.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On the road from Helm's Deep to Isengard, Gimli ponders and Legolas pines.

Legolas held Gimli’s hand as Aragorn tended his wound.  Gimli had tried to protest that he was no child to be patronized, but he hissed as Aragorn dabbed on a stinging poultice.  Legolas made no comment as his slender hand was crushed in Gimli’s stronger grip.

“I feared for you,” he said softly.  “When we were separated.”

“You worry overmuch,” said Gimli gruffly.  “Such a trifling wound as this deserves no fear – and you know I would not have given in so easily.”

“Still.”

Legolas squeezed his hand, and this time it was Gimli who kept his comments to himself.

* * *

He was nearly on the borders of sleep when he heard the elf at his bedside, murmuring something in his own tongue.

“Speak the Common Tongue,” Gimli managed through drowsiness, “if there is anything you would say to me.”

Legolas hesitated.  “You should rest,” he said.  “Aragorn said.”

“And you are my nursemaid, to sing me to sleep?” Gimli demanded.

A long pause.  Then, “I shall, if you wish it.”

It was on Gimli’s tongue to demur, to laugh off the sudden tenderness.  But – and perhaps it was the head wound, softening his edges – but he found himself nodding instead.

* * *

Legolas did not know how much was different now than it had been even yesterday, or whether he was overthinking.  And he knew that whatever the truth was, it was not time to speak, to disrupt the ease between them.  There was little that he could not say to Gimli, but these words were not yet ready to be uttered.

But the clasp of Gimli’s hands at his waist felt different than before: warmer, stronger – more comforting than ever.  And whether it was a true difference or one constructed in his own mind, Legolas let himself relax into the grip.

* * *

Legolas had known Gimli could speak well and with passion: charming everyone who heard him.  But he had never heard such words from him – words as belonged in song, more eloquent than any Legolas could render outside his own tongue.  He watched Gimli’s face, and listened to his voice, and felt under a spell.

But the idea it gave him brought him even greater joy.  “If we both return safe out of the perils that await us, we will journey for a while together,” he said, and knew that Gimli by his side would be the greatest beauty of all.

* * *

The hobbits! Their friends were safe, their hunt rewarded, even if Gimli did feel a fair amount of indignation that it had been rewarded in such a way (to find their quarry resting, feasting, even smoking!). But it was good to see them safe.

“So!” Pippin said to him and Legolas, when food had been eaten and tales told.  “Still thick as thieves, you two, then?”

Merry jabbed him in the ribs, and Pippin looked back and forth between them before clamping his mouth shut. Legolas laughed and nodded, but Gimli spared a thought to wonder why he was blushing.

* * *

The air of Isengard pressed close and hot, flush rising in Legolas’s face with every soft, beautiful, poisonous word from Saruman’s mouth.  His chest contracted around a bubble of trapped air; his mouth opened, but not even breath came out.

He fumbled at his side, fingers grasping desperately, and Gimli’s hand closed around his, knowing.  Not until his hand was enfolded in the broad, calloused palm did the tightness in his chest release, and he could breathe again.  His courage returned, sliding back into his body from the press of their hands.

Beside him, Gimli squeezed his fingers, and spoke.

* * *

Legolas gazed at the Ents – such magnificent trees, with glowing eyes and age-old songs and hearts that thrummed strength through their whole bodies. He could see awe and even fear on his companions’ faces, but for once there was no quail in his own heart.  They were not so different from the trees he knew, and he almost felt as though they knew him in turn: an understanding radiated between them that Legolas had been missing for months.

“So you have come all the way from Mirkwood?” Treebeard asked him. And when he replied, his voice shook not at all.

* * *

“The friend I speak of is not an elf,” he said, and warmth rose in his cheeks as he looked on Gimli, the new recognition of his own love pulsing heat through his blood.  “I mean Gimli, Glóin's son here.”  And Gimli bowed, humbling himself before this Ent for Legolas’s sake, and he had to catch his breath at the rush of tenderness.

“This is a strange friendship,” Treebeard said of them, looking suspiciously on Gimli, and Legolas straightened his shoulders with pride.

“Strange it may seem,” he said, “but while Gimli lives I shall not come to Fangorn alone.”

* * *

Slaying forty-two orcs was certainly a worthy accomplishment, Gimli thought, but somehow the number came to mean more to him when Legolas boasted of it to Treebeard.  And he had never yearned to enter Fangorn once, let alone again – but the temptation was stronger when Legolas asked for it, words delicate as a diplomat’s even as he lifted his chin proudly to the lord of the forest.  Gimli’s chest swelled with something warm and bright, and after a few moments he knew it for pride – pride in Legolas’s strength, and in his own fortune in having found such a friend.

* * *

Gimli would likely never be fond of riding.  He far preferred firm earth beneath his feet to the constant rocking stride, the ever-present concern that a sudden bump would cause him to bite his tongue in half.  And he had thought this distaste strong enough that it mattered not with whom he rode.

But as they made their way back from Isengard, his hands firmly clasped at his friend’s waist and head turned to the side to avoid swallowing the long hair, he could not help but wonder why he was so glad once more to be riding with Legolas.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Grey Company travels the Paths of the Dead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I skipped a little time here, but honestly, not all that much. Going back through the books makes you realize how fast everything is happening - The Fellowship of the Ring seems to take up the largest amount of time, what with all the traveling and the long sojourn in Lothlorien. But after the hobbits get captured, everything happens in a matter of days and weeks. I decided there was nothing particularly exciting happening on the way to the Paths of the Dead, so I decided to go straight to poor Gimli.

Gimli quaked.

Terror held him as it never had before: waves of sweat broke cold and sharp over his forehead, beneath his arms, at the small of his back.  His armor pressed heavy about him, but it was not warming; rather, he felt he drowned in a wave of heaviness, the chill of the dead and his own fear.  His breath came short.

He was last of the company through the caverns; the weight of stone, like his armor, had turned from comforting to oppressive.  He wished to scream, to sob, for even those most humiliating of releases, but his terror held him mute, and he could only shake.

Alone, he was so alone, drowning in waves of the death that was bound to come upon him one day, the death that had never held him in such thrall.  But it was different – battle was swift, merciless, and death sudden and unexpected.  This death: this slow, choking, cold death – it waited for him, wrapped him in waves of suffocation.  It followed behind him, promising no escape, however long he lived, however hard he fought, and he could not take it.

Gimli had always accounted himself brave, but here he faltered and trembled, stumbled and could barely walk.  Perhaps if there were someone here for him to protect, someone who needed his strength, he could have retained it – but there was no one.  Aragorn faced the leader of the dead, unafraid; the rest of the company pressed forward in grim silence, fearful but moving (as if any of them would have welcomed his assistance in the first place), and Legolas –

Legolas walked ahead, leading Arod and speaking softly to him, his energy bent upon the horse’s fear, the horse’s comfort, and Gimli wished – He knew not what he wished, but he wished it, and he would have moved quicker to walk by Legolas’s side, if he could force his feet to move.  His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth, his mouth drier and colder than icicles, and his heartbeat was louder and faster than ever before, less individual beats than a continuing roar.

Perhaps it was this that Legolas heard, for suddenly he turned his head and saw.

He stopped, keeping a hand on Arod’s neck when the horse would have shied and broken away from his restraining hold, and reached the other behind.  “Gimli,” he called softly.  “Gimli, my friend, you are not alone.”

Gimli tried to say his name in turn, but his mouth would not move.  Shards of ice choked his throat, coated his lips and held them captive.

Legolas seemed to understand – and of course, Gimli supposed, he would.  “Gimli,” he said again, and somehow the name was not overused in his mouth, “I am here.  Come to me, just a few steps more.  I will not leave without you.”

Gimli could not quicken his pace, but he stumbled on, breath shorter and sweat colder with every shambling step.  He fixed his eyes on Legolas’s outstretched hand.  Legolas did not step back, but waited for him, hand seeming to glow in the darkness of the cavern.  And when Gimli had made it so far, he could not reach up for the hand so Legolas reached down instead, enfolding Gimli’s icy hand in his own.

“Come with me, Gimli,” he murmured, his voice just a breath but warmer than the cold that pressed upon them.  “You are safe by my side, my friend.  Walk with me.”

“Dead,” Gimli managed to croak out – no other word would pass his lips.  The ice in his throat choked that one to a whisper.

“You are not dead,” Legolas reminded him, and his hand slid up Gimli’s arm, never breaking contact, to wrap around his shoulders.  Even through leather and mail, the warmth seemed to follow his touch.  His hand on Gimli’s opposite shoulder, he drew Gimli against his side and held on.  “You live yet, Gimli, and you will live for many long years still.  I see fire within you, long-burning and warming.  This ice does not hold you; death claims you not.  You live, and you will live.  Only stay by my side, Gimli.”  Every time Legolas said his name, it seemed to be reaching through the haze of coldness, holding him as firmly as Legolas’s grip and the sound of his voice.

Gimli managed another step, and another, and Legolas moved with him, holding him with one hand and Arod with the other, and again he noticed how that slightness could turn to strength, grounding as Gimli had never believed an elf could be.

The strength only went so far; for the Dead still whispered to him, and their icy horror stole into his blood and leached all strength from his legs.  Before long Legolas’s arm was not enough to keep him on his feet and he sank slowly to his knees on the ground, unable to bear his own weight.  The chill of the stone floor was as nothing to the chill in his very blood, seeping ever upwards into his heart.

Legolas tugged on his arm, but his legs would not move.  In slow, pained humiliation Gimli reached out with one hand and dragged himself forward.

“Come with me, Gimli,” Legolas repeated.  He reached down, but as soon as his hand left Arod’s side, the horse shied and pawed at the ground, his eyes rolling up into his head, and Legolas was forced to hold his head still and whisper to him once more.  His murmurings changed language, and Gimli no longer understood the words, but the tone reached for him in absence of Legolas’s hand, and he understood that they were for him as well.

“Gimli,” Legolas said again and again, and said more as well in his own tongue, but the sound of his name put the last vestiges of warmth into Gimli’s faltering arms and he continued to pull himself forward, pressed lower and lower to the ground by fear and cold and shame, but he moved ever on.

Legolas led him slowly and patiently, but it mattered less as time went on, as the aura of the Dead seeped into Gimli’s bones.  He would have run if he could to escape it, but it pulled him back and pushed him down, wrapping him in a darkness so suffocating and silent that Legolas’s voice grew ever quieter, and each call of his name seemed from farther away.

With every shuffle forward he felt the pressure around him grow stronger, the cold almost numbing now, so that he could no longer remember what it was to be warm, Legolas’s voice fainter in his ears – but then there was another sound.  Clearer, sharper, than the nightmare that wrapped him, even than the faint dream of Legolas’s voice reaching out for him.  Water: fresh, fast-moving, awakening.  It cut a sliver into the suffocating cloth of Gimli’s surroundings, and with that break he could see light, growing brighter to push at the darkness, and he could hear the warmth again of Legolas calling for him.

He had switched once more into the Common Tongue, and Gimli’s name was what he said most often, but there were other words, too, meaningless soothing words and exhortations to move forward; words of affection and promise.  Not enough of Gimli’s mind remained to take in their meaning, but later he would recall that Legolas had called him his dearest of friends, most beloved companion; had made promises of warmth and light and life soon to come; had reminded him of bargains already made and urged him forth to fulfill them.  Gimli did not then hear these words, but he stored them in his heart and with each crawling stride the darkness and the press of the Dead lessened, and with a relief he had never before felt at the leaving of a cavern they emerged into the air, and he saw the sky above him.

Stale breath rushed from his lungs with a sound like a sob and Legolas let go Arod’s neck to reach for him.  “Are you with me, my friend?” he asked, and it was not yet in Gimli to respond, but he nodded.

Legolas’s face went slack with relief, and a smile followed.  He reached for Gimli’s hands and drew him up, and for a wonder his gentle strength raised Gimli to his feet: unsteady on his legs and leaning with his whole weight on Legolas, but upright.  Legolas held him against his own body for just a moment and Gimli took calm from it: leaning his head against Legolas’s chest and breathing in the steady beat of his heart.  Then Legolas turned him toward Arod, who was calm again in the open air, and boosted him onto the horse, mounting up before him.

It was in Gimli’s throat to plead to ride in front, not behind, have a barrier between himself and the presence that he knew still followed them.  But his hands found and firmed at Legolas’s waist, and he felt it was good, suddenly, to hold on to him.  The exhaustion weighed so heavy and sudden upon him that he felt he could have slept, were that numb mindless terror not still dragging at his mind and his senses.  But he leaned his head into Legolas’s back and closed his eyes, and if he could not escape all feeling, he could at least drift away from it a bit.

He did not sleep, but continued to drift as the light changed and they rode steadily on.  Legolas had fallen silent again, as was his wont, but his hands had come to rest on Gimli’s, weaving their fingers together.  Gimli noticed it when next he surfaced, and squeezed them in thanks.

Legolas twisted his head around, inhaling as though to speak, and then stopped.  “Gimli,” he said tightly, “do not turn around.”

“What do you see?” Gimli asked, the first words to free themselves from his tight throat, but it was unnecessary, for he almost thought he could see the reflection in the shine of Legolas’s eyes.

“The Dead are following,” said Legolas softly.  His breath stirred wisps of Gimli’s hair, warmer than the cold on the back of his neck.  “No, do not look back – I see shapes of men and of horses, and pale banners like shreds of cloud, and spears like winter-thickets on a misty night.”  His words made it sound beautiful, almost, and Gimli did not turn.  He wished to see the Dead the way Legolas did – as spirits, as bits only, parts of a world that was more real and less terrifying than the chill in the air behind them.  “The Dead are following,” said Legolas again, and Gimli shivered.

“Yes, the Dead ride behind,” said Elladan, the only barrier between Gimli and the cold host that pursued.  “They have been summoned.”

Gimli did not speak again.  He buried his face in Legolas’s back and closed his eyes once more.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Their first night with the dead, Legolas notices that Gimli is not sleeping peacefully and decides to take matters into his own hands.

Gimli was shivering.

Legolas noticed it immediately; he had been watching Gimli since he had fallen asleep, from a distance enough to retain the bounds of propriety, but just a bit closer than they had been sleeping nonetheless.  Legolas was not on watch, but he had appointed himself the task of watching Gimli – though he had chosen to keep that task quiet, not wishing to humiliate Gimli before the rest of the company, though of course there was no shame in fear.

He was frankly surprised that Gimli had yielded to sleep at all, but sheer terror was exhausting, and perhaps slumber had claimed him despite the troubles in his mind and heart.  Or perhaps – and Legolas dared to hope, though he knew such hope was slim – that sleep was in part due to him, and the song he had hummed as a lullaby in a voice just loud enough to reach Gimli’s ears.

He slept still, Legolas could tell by his even breath and the occasional rasping snore, but he shivered.  With cold or with fear, Legolas could not say, and he shuffled forward as much as he dared, leaning close to Gimli’s face as though to stare through his closed eyes and see what lay in his dreams, that he could soothe it away.

But no answer was forthcoming, and another shiver rolled through Gimli’s body.  His hands twitched restlessly.

Well.  Be it cold or fear, perhaps there was something Legolas could do.

He moved slowly, carefully – such a sleep should not be disturbed, for fear he would be unable to return to it upon waking.  On his knees he crept closer to Gimli and lowered himself gently down beside him, his chest to Gimli’s back.  Gimli’s form fit neatly within the frame of his own: he tucked his chin over Gimli’s head, cradling it in the crook of neck and collarbone, and fit his legs around Gimli’s shorter ones.

The fabric of Gimli’s bedroll separated their bodies, but Legolas could already feel an increase in warmth where they were pressed together, and he curled closer.  When Gimli’s body undulated with another deep shiver, Legolas reached out tentatively to drape an arm over him, tucking them closer together.

“Peace, my friend,” he whispered.  “I am here.  No dark dreams need disturb your slumber tonight.”  And he pressed himself closer, and continued to murmur into Gimli’s ear, offering his body for warmth and his voice for comfort, and watched, pleased, as the shivers began to ease.  He felt Gimli relax against him, a tenseness dissipating that he had not even noticed until it was gone, his breath deepening, as though Legolas’s hand against his chest had relieved a weight rather than added one.  He could feel Gimli’s heart beating against his palm, and it gave him comfort even as he sought to give the same.

He had not often been behind Gimli like this, pressed so close – but he found himself suddenly envious of Gimli’s position behind him on the horse.  He felt as though he held something precious in his arms – and ah, he did, for what could be more precious than Gimli’s life, his comfort, his safety?  Hearing Gimli’s breath, feeling the slight motions of his body as he shifted in his sleep, resting his cheek against thick hair – it felt as though his heart was completed, as though Gimli's body was pressure against a wound he had not even realized was there, keeping his blood inside his body.

He allowed himself to drift into reverie, eventually, but he kept his senses attuned to Gimli’s breathing, and to the heartbeat under his hand.  If either of them changed, he would know.

He woke a scant few hours later, but he needed little rest anyway, and wished to rise before the rest of the company, to spare himself explanations and Gimli embarrassment.  When the sky began to lighten, he left the paths of his dreams and returned again to the waking world, looking around at the others to see that he had achieved his goal to rise before all the Men –

All save one.

Aragorn was sitting awake already, quiet and still in the way he had learned from the elves at Rivendell.  When Legolas’s gaze finally reached him, he looked deliberately back, flicked his eyes down to where he was still wrapped around Gimli, back up to Legolas’s face, and raised one eyebrow.

It was only his desire not to wake Gimli that kept him from scrambling back.  As it was he extricated himself quickly, though what purpose that would serve he knew not, and sat up, relinquishing his hold with some reluctance and letting his hand fall away from the dwarf’s heart.  “He was cold,” he murmured softly to Aragorn, but he felt heat rise in his cheeks and ear-tips, and knew that he blushed.

Aragorn smiled at him then, and the smile held good portions each of curiosity and fondness, as well as a touch of exasperation.  “As you say, my friend,” he said gently.  “I have heard, though, that sharing blankets is a more effective way to transfer warmth.”

Legolas gaped and flushed hotter, but Aragorn simply smiled once more and stretched.  “I plan to rouse the others soon,” he said.  “If you wish to retreat to your bedroll and pretend that you never left it.”

Legolas glared, but he inched back from Gimli all the same, using all the grace he had learned and all that he inherently possessed to keep from making any sound or motion that would rouse Gimli or any other member of the company.  Even the two other elves who traveled with them would not hear him.  Aragorn raised his eyebrows again, his smile now much more mocking, as Legolas retreated to his own bedroll and began to pack it up.

The others woke quickly, their sleep likely as fitful and restless as Gimli’s had been, even under Legolas’s watch.  Legolas was not himself unsettled by the Dead but he could feel the pall they brought, a coldness that hovered just below the skin.  It did not touch him in the way it did them, in the way of someone for whom that fate would inevitably come, but he could feel it in the heaviness of the air and the unease of everyone in the company.

Legolas had packed quickly and now busied himself tending to Arod, but kept an eye cast back towards the company and left the horse (with a few more whispered words of comfort) once he saw Gimli stretch and ease himself out of his bedroll.

“Good morning, my friend,” he said quietly.  “How was your sleep?”  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Aragorn turn sharply to look at him, and decided it would be too indiscreet to glare back.

Gimli yawned and blinked, scrubbing at his eyes with a hand and then looking around in surprise.  “Hmm,” he rumbled, “I could not say I slept _well_ , but – I do feel refreshed, this morning.  So I must have slept well enough.  And you?”

Legolas could not hold back his smile.  “My rest was untroubled,” was all he said.  Here, he thought, discretion might still be advised.

“You would be alone in that, Master Elf,” muttered a nearby man, rolling up his bedroll and shivering.  “Rangers are well accustomed to enduring, but I was troubled by a chill the likes of which I have never felt.”  He rubbed his arms and shivered again.  “But then, Rangers are not accustomed to traveling with the dead, so I must hope it is a forgivable lapse.”

“For a man, perhaps,” Gimli said.  “Indeed, I confess to be unsettled by the Dead, but I know not this chill of which you speak.”  He rolled up his blankets and began to tuck them into his pack.  “In fact, now you bring it up, I find myself uncommonly warm.”

There was a small, choked sound from not too far away.  Both of their heads swung around to find Aragorn with a gloved hand to his mouth, his eyes averted but glittering.  This time Legolas made no effort to suppress his glare.

“What is it?” demanded Gimli.  “Is there aught you find amusing, Aragorn?”

“Indeed.”  Legolas narrowed his eyes.  “I do not know what there is in such a situation to laugh at.”

“Do you not?” asked Aragorn too innocently.  But then he relented, clearing his throat and forcing back his smile.  “No – it is nothing.  Dwarves are hardy folk indeed, that you might have endured such a chill night without hardship.  I can scarcely imagine how it could be so.”

“Yes, well,” said Gimli.  “You will find there is much about dwarves you can scarcely imagine.”

“I am sure it is so,” said Legolas, putting a hand on his shoulder and turning them both firmly away from Aragorn.

When he was sure Gimli was distracted enough, he threw another glare over his shoulder.  Just for good measure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...Aragorn is very amused.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The gulls cry.

The time had nearly come for battle, and Gimli was glad of it.

The horror of travel with the dead had never grown so sharp again as those first hours through their caverns, but nor had it ever dulled to the point of numbness.  He felt the chill at his back still, even as the host traveled in a shapeless mist, whose details only the eyes of Legolas – and perhaps Elladan and Elrohir, the other elves who traveled with them – were keen enough to discern.

Not that Gimli was looking.  He kept his eyes resolutely forward instead, grateful these last few days as he had never been before for Legolas’s height and the length of his back.  Though he rode still behind, he could press his face into Legolas’s clothing, tighten his arms around Legolas’s waist, and feel as though the world around him was shut out, even if only for moments.

Legolas comforted him.  Gimli had thought to feel shame in his weakness, in cowering where his friend stood so firm.  But he found that either there was no space for shame among the fear in his heart, or perhaps he had simply lost the need for these feelings as long as Legolas stood at his side.  There was no humiliation, no desire to prove himself in competition; there was only the safety of his friend’s presence and the need to press himself even closer.

He thought at times to question those feelings, particularly when he had found himself burying his face closer to Legolas’s back than he needed, inhaling the scent of his tunic and trying to identify it.  He had never given much thought to the scent of elves before, but supposed that if he had he would have thought that they would smell of something delicate: flowers or fruit.  But Legolas’s tunic smelled of sweat and road dust, the same as Gimli’s own, with an underlying scent that Gimli could only identify as _water_ , strange as that seemed.  And then he had shaken himself free of whatever spell had overtaken him, wondering why he was putting so much effort into identifying an elf’s smell, of all things.

Purely academic interest, he had reasoned, or simply a distraction from the host behind them, whose breath he could practically feel on his neck.  And then he had shivered, and closed his eyes once more.

But Legolas was a fine distraction, it had turned out.  At times they would converse, and Legolas would do what he could to keep Gimli’s mind off his troubles; at times when they were both silent, Gimli could content himself with describing his scent, or trying to determine the exact shade of his hair (was it black, or a very, very dark brown; did it change under different types of lighting?), or guessing his mood based on the tension in the muscles against his hands and front.  All done in service either of dwarvish curiosity (crafters were, after all, interested in colors and textures) or of his own distraction.

The distraction, though, was never quite enough, for inevitably the chill would seep into Gimli’s bones again, and nothing Legolas could say or be could ever keep it away from him.  This on top of Gimli’s continued distaste for riding had made the past days some of the worst of his life.

But now their long, hard ride neared its end, for he could hear the clamor of their foes before them, and he knew that the time had nearly come for battle.  There he could fight, could unleash the building tension within him and warm his blood in the fighting and felling of foes.  And then, too, the dead would disperse, and their ride would be free of the chill specters behind them, and Gimli would be able to find peace again.  Soon, he thought to himself, and he felt his blood thrill in anticipation at the sounds of an army gathering, and the rushing of the river that would be upon them soon –

Against him, Legolas went rigid.

Gimli frowned, feeling muscle tauten beneath his hands, seemingly without cause.  “Legolas?” he asked.

Legolas did not respond, his body stiff and brittle as under-folded steel.  There was no give to the flesh beneath Gimli’s hands, and hard as he listened he could not make out Legolas’s breathing.  It was similar, he thought, to the posture Legolas had often used with him at the very beginning: unbreathing, still as an ice-carved statue.  But there was nothing here to trigger such a response; he had ceased even the slightest of uneasy reactions to Gimli after their time in Lorien, and no one else had spoken to him – unless –

The battle.  Gimli could hear nothing amiss, but Legolas’s ears were sharper than his own.  Had they picked up a sound that was too far away from them for Gimli to hear?

“Legolas?” he said again, louder this time.  “What ails you?  Is aught amiss?”

Again, Legolas did not respond – did not even breathe.  It was as though he had not heard Gimli, could not feel his hands even as they nudged more urgently into his sides.  Gimli tried to shake him, and found that Legolas somehow resisted him without moving at all – that he could not be moved.

“Legolas!” Gimli exclaimed, louder now in his distress.  “Legolas, speak to me!”  He tugged again at Legolas’s unresponsive sides – and finally he got a response, though not the one he had sought.

Legolas gasped – a high, painful-sounding inhale – and then went limp.

He did not exactly collapse against Gimli, but he sagged back, sudden change of weight almost knocking Gimli backwards off the horse.  Gimli cursed and steadied him, leaning forward to balance them, just as Arod seemed to realize that his rider had stopped guiding him.  He slowed to a walk and then stopped entirely, twisting his head back in what Gimli would almost have called _concern_ , had he not been speaking of a horse.

Gimli might have been relieved at the sudden change of pace, returned to his attentions to Legolas, if not for the fact that they had not been riding behind, and the company had continued to move around them. No one had expected Arod to stop, and there were cries of shock and surprised whinnies as the Dunedain behind them were forced to swerve to avoid trampling them, kicking dust up into Gimli’s face.

And then – if that were not bad enough – the familiar chill rose up stronger than before, as the barrier between them and the dead host behind dwindled.  Gimli felt the too-familiar panic rise into his throat, and Arod seemed to feel it as well, for he flinched, neighed, and _bolted_.

Gimli cried out aloud as Arod took off, completely out of his control, and he had no tack to calm him, and his arms were full of the motionless form of his friend.  He tried to shift Legolas into one arm and reach out with the other for Arod’s mane, but the distance was too great and he could barely see.  The only way to save himself might have been to let go of Legolas, but he found now that he would rather fall and be trampled than toss his friend aside as the inedible rind of a fruit.  All he could do was resign himself to his fate – not the most dignified end for a dwarf of his status, but there seemed to be nothing for it now –

And then there was someone riding beside him, a new hand on Arod’s neck, and a voice was calling out to the dead and they were falling back into a misty cloud once more.  Arod’s wild canter slowed to a trot, a walk, and then he came again to a halt.

The world slowed around Gimli once more; gasping, he settled himself more firmly on Arod’s back and looked around to gain his bearings. The Company had stopped just a ways ahead of them, but one of Elrond’s sons – Elladan, Gimli thought; he had been the one riding as rearguard – had hold of Arod’s mane, and was speaking gentle words to him.  That taken care of, Gimli turned his attention to Legolas.

He was not unconscious, like Gimli had feared, but insensible.  His eyes were glazed strangely over in a way Gimli had never seen them: not the distant look he got when he slept, but rather as though he were looking at something far, far away, or through a veil.  He breathed normally, now, but his lips moved faintly, and when Gimli bent his head close, he could hear Legolas mumbling, words in his own tongue unknown to Gimli.

“Legolas?” he tried again, whispering this time – why, he knew not exactly.  He had to twist his upper body around to manage it, but he shifted Legolas to the side, so that he supported him with his left arm alone, and used his right hand to pat Legolas’s cheek.  “Legolas, what is wrong?”

Legolas mumbled another stream of syllables, and to the side Gimli heard an intake of breath.  He looked up to see Elladan gazing at them with sudden understanding in his face.

“What is it?” Gimli asked.  “Do you know what ails him?”

“I believe so.”  Elladan reached out as though to touch Legolas’s cheek as well – but then, to Gimli’s shock, he drew his hand back and slapped Legolas hard across the face.

Gimli cried out and would have jerked Legolas away, had he not chosen that moment to stir.  His head moved slightly, and his eyes blinked once, twice, clearing away the fog.  “Gimli?” he mumbled.  “Elladan?”  He opened his mouth as though to say something else, and then froze.  He stared about him as though only just realizing where they were, and his face twisted in an expression of terrible grief.

“Legolas,” Elladan said sharply, reaching out a hand and seizing his chin.  “Do not” –

“Elladan?”

Just what they needed.  Gimli groaned internally as another voice broke in, another horse trotted up to them.  Aragorn.  “Is all well?”  His gaze fell on Legolas.  “Is he” –

Legolas sat up of a sudden, breaking away from Gimli and Elladan alike, and hunched forward to bury his face in his hands.  Gimli reached out to touch his back but stopped before his fingers could make contact, hand hovering helplessly an inch away.  What could he do without knowing what ailed his friend?  And why would neither Legolas nor Elladan tell him what was wrong?

“I am well, Aragorn,” said Legolas into his hands.  His voice wavered and cracked, shale under an unsteady hammer.  “I simply need – a moment.”

“Shall we” –

“No!”  Legolas raised his head from his hands and brushed back his hair, tucking it safely behind his ears.  Gimli could not see his face, but the rest of his body had gone tense in a much more familiar way.  “I will not hold the Company back – ride on; I will be well.”

“Legolas” – tried Elladan, but Legolas drew himself tighter and flinched away.

“It is well, Elladan,” he said tightly.  “You may all move on.  I am back to myself, and will hinder us no more.”

Gimli could see that they both looked troubled, but that they both also realized they would get nothing more from Legolas.  Aragorn turned first, and urged his horse back to the front of the company.  Elladan gave Legolas another concerned look, but stepped back and remounted.  Legolas relaxed a bit once they had left, but the tension did not fully leave his body; Gimli could feel it, where his hands had returned to their accustomed position.  But he had no intention of leaving unless Legolas asked him to, and as Legolas had not asked either Elladan or Aragorn to take him –

“Legolas?” he asked, once more, but this time hoping for a response.  “What is it?  What has happened to you?”

There was a long silence, but some instinct told Gimli not to break it – that pressing Legolas would only frighten him away further.  Instead Legolas whispered to Arod and they moved once more, even as the Company set off once more around them.  Gimli waited, silent, hands still at Legolas’s waist, as the sounds of the approaching battle grew nearer, and still Legolas said nothing.

Finally he sighed.  “I cannot speak of it now,” he said.  Gimli made to respond, but knew not what he would have said, so it was just as well that Legolas spoke again before he could.  “I will tell you later, I promise, Gimli. It is – it is not a thing I can think of now, not as battle draws nearer.  Only I would ask” –

He broke off and tensed again.  Gimli could feel the space beneath his palms expanding and contracting: shallow and quick.  “Ask,” he said.  “You know you need not fear to ask me anything.”

“I” – Legolas swallowed, loudly enough that Gimli could hear it.  The points of his ears were exposed where he had pushed back his hair, and Gimli saw them flush a deep, dark red.  “I hope this will come clearer to you, later, only now – if you would” –

He broke off again, and Gimli squeezed his sides.  “Anything,” he repeated softly.

“If you would hold me,” Legolas said, quiet but in such a rush that Gimli at first thought he hadn’t heard properly.  “Only until we have reached our goal, and you need only hold a little tighter, but – enough to remind me that I am here – that you are here.  Give me a ground to stand upon, Gimli, I – would not ask, only – please.”

And then he fell silent and his head ducked forward, body tightening again as though bracing for a blow.

For a moment, Gimli felt as though he had already received that blow.  The breath rushed out of his lungs, drying all the moisture from his throat as it went.  He had to swallow, close his mouth, inhale again, before he could answer.  And why did it feel like this – like Legolas had broken some sort of taboo between them, some subject that they did not speak of?  But regardless, there was only one possible answer.  He licked his lips, which had also dried out, before he answered, and when he spoke, his voice was hoarse.

“Of course,” he said, and tightened his arms, pressing his face once more into Legolas’s back.  “Anything you need.”

“Thank you,” Legolas breathed, and he leaned back into Gimli’s hold.  Gimli kept his arms tight around Legolas’s waist, trying to ignore the sudden and inexplicable pounding of his heart, and they rode together for some time in silence.

* * *

Legolas’s thoughts whirled, wheeling back and forth between earth and sky – he tried to keep them grounded on the steady pound of Arod’s hooves against dusty ground, the sounds of horses and men around him, the feel of his bow against his back.  But ever he felt them wrenched away, up and up, the thin wailing cries of gulls digging talons into his mind, into his sanity, and yanking it up into the sky, along the river, and away to the sea beyond.

The sea! He could smell salt in the air, he thought; if he closed his eyes his ears filled with the roaring of waves in the distance, the crashing lap against a rocky shore.  He could feel the rocking motion of his ship beneath him, traversing the expanse of ever-changing color, temperamental waves, sky blue and gray as the water, the mist in the distance concealing the lands, his destination, that promised endless peace –

No!  The rocking was not his ship; it was his horse: Arod’s back rocking up and down like waves as he moved with constant pace.  And as he remembered once more where he was, it crashed down upon him once more: that grief, that terrible wrenching loss.  The reminder that he was still here, on Middle-earth.

 _Beware of the sea,_ the Lady had said, and he had thought her to mean his death.  Had given no thought to the sea-longing – he knew of it, certainly, but it had never seemed a concern to him.  Nature and nurture alike, the blood and ways of the Silvan elves ran through his veins: elves who loved the world, who loved their forests and trees as he ever had.  He was his mother’s child, even as his sister had always taken after his father – only now he felt his father’s blood in his veins, even as every new cry thrust stabbing claws through his heart.

His eyes burned; that sensation brought him back to his body.  Arod moved well and correctly despite his rider’s lack of guidance, and Legolas tried to feel grateful to him for it but could only muster up a vague approval.  Everything here seemed dulled, now; he cast his gaze about him, but could find nothing beautiful.  Even away from the forest, he had always managed to find something lovely in his surroundings; some piece of beauty to cling to – but now there was nothing.  The colors had turned drab; the scent of the air was nothing but dust.  He tried to comfort himself with the thought of trees and his forest home, but found that even those thoughts were tinged with loneliness and _not-enough_.

He sniffed, and realized that his cheeks were wet with tears.

“Legolas,” came a voice behind him.  Deep, concerned, beloved, and even as another gull cried above, this voice wrapped warm arms around Legolas’s heart and muffled the pain.  Legolas blinked and wiped a hand across his eyes, and he became aware that the arms were real as well.  Gimli, sitting behind him and clasping his waist, voice rough with concern and care.  “Legolas,” Gimli said again, and Legolas let out his breath in a long sigh – almost a sob.

“Gimli,” he choked.  Let his muscles loosen and his body lean back into Gimli’s arms, just a bit.  Another gull cried, and he flinched, but Gimli held him, and the voice of the sea seemed to recede, if just for a moment.

“Legolas.”  Gimli’s voice was gentle, almost unbearably so, and Legolas had to blink hard against another stinging wave of tears.  “I know you said you could not speak of it, but I think you must.  If it will help.”

Perhaps he was right.  If he could not even be trusted to keep his mind in the present, then speaking of what he had felt – what he still felt – could not make this any worse.  He tried to think of how to explain it, but only two words would make themselves clear.

“The gulls,” he said, and then stopped.  The sounds had changed – the clamor of foes ahead of them grown louder, close enough now to distinguish individual voices.  And ahead of them Legolas could see an army amassed, their backs to the river, and there was no more time to speak, for battle was upon them.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Legolas explains the sea-longing, and Gimli (finally!) makes a realization.

The battle was done, the ships were won, and the host of the dead had – finally – dispersed.  The feel of their departure was immediately evident in the air: a lightness and warmth that had been absent for days, the disappearance of the lingering chill at the back of Gimli’s neck.  Their absence would have given Gimli heart, even with all that remained to be done to come to Gondor’s aid, if not for Legolas.

Legolas.

Gimli knew not what had happened to him, but he was not himself.  He had kept a close eye on Legolas during the battle: scrutinizing his fighting; noticing every time a strike seemed to falter or an arrow was just a bit slower to find its mark; near to panic every time he lost sight of Legolas amidst the fray.  His own fighting prowess had been impeded nearly as much as his friend’s, and it was perhaps for this reason that there had been no talk between them of wagers or competitions.  Or perhaps it was simply that neither had the heart for it.

But now the battle was done – at least for the moment.  Their foes had been defeated, and their ships remained for Aragorn’s use.  Gimli was not himself looking forward to the travel by boat – he had not enjoyed the journey from Lothlorien to Amon Hen, and he did not relish the thought of sailing further to Gondor.  Legolas kept eyeing the ships, though, with a strange look of yearning on his face; he was otherwise silent.  This would not have been unusual, but they had grown friendly with the others of the Dunedain, and Legolas had made no move to speak to Gimli or Aragorn either.  He had drawn back into himself in a way familiar from their early days of traveling: a shell of protection – but from what, Gimli did not know.

“Gimli.”  Aragorn appeared at his side, laying a hand on his shoulder, and Gimli made a masterful effort to disguise his flinch.  The man moved too quietly: nearly as silent as an elf.

“Aragorn.”  Gimli looked up at him.  “Have you need of me?”

“Nay.”  Aragorn smiled down.  “Or, no immediate need.  I will speak to our allies about readying these ships, and tomorrow morning we sail for Gondor.  Tonight, though, we rest, and” – He glanced around, his voice sinking to a whisper – “I would have you see to Legolas.”

Gimli started, reaching up and clamping his hand against his friend’s upper arm.  “Do you know what ails him?” he said.  “I asked, but he would not speak.”

Aragorn let out a heavy sigh.  “Elladan suspects,” he said, “and Elrohir and I share his suspicion.  But I would hear it from Legolas’s own lips before I speak of it to anyone else.  If he will open his heart to anyone, Gimli, then to you.  Ask him, if you would.  See if he is well.”

Gimli cast his gaze to the side, to where Legolas stood, staring mournfully into the sky.  Any other time, he knew the elf’s sharp ears would have caught every word of their conversation. Now, he suspected that Legolas could hear nothing at all.

“I will,” he promised Aragorn, and then made for his friend.

They were in a town, finally, one in which they could stop rather than riding through at grueling pace, and had found an inn for lodging.  Legolas spoke not, but let Gimli guide him by the arm: to the stables, to take care of Arod – Legolas took over the grooming without a word – and then to the chambers that the two of them would share.  When they had made it to their room, two buckets of water steamed on the floor for them.  Gimli spared a moment’s gratitude to have hot water for bathing, but he could not think more than that now.

He pressed Legolas into a chair so that their heights were equal, and then took hold of his shoulders to meet his eyes.  He half expected Legolas to avoid his gaze, but he stared back, eyes dark and mournful.  His lips parted, but he spoke not.

“Legolas,” Gimli said at last.  “What is wrong?  Tell me, please.”

Legolas took a breath as though to speak, but let it out in a quick, sharp burst of air.  His eyes fell shut, and instead of speaking he leaned forward and nearly fell into Gimli’s arms.

Gimli’s own breath left him in a rush as Legolas collided with him, arms clamping around him with unexpected strength, face ducking down against his shoulder.  He felt Legolas’s body pressed full against his, torso to torso instead of back, felt the spill of that long, smooth hair down his arm and warm breath against his neck.  His own voice disappeared suddenly, and all he could do was settle tentative arms around Legolas in turn.

Gimli could not say how long the unaccustomed embrace lasted, only that he seemed to have developed an extra heartbeat, one that pounded faintly between every beat of the first, and that his breath had once more turned shallow and quick.  He rubbed circles on Legolas’s shoulder blades, and spoke not of the dampness soaking into his neck.  Spoke not at all, in fact, until Legolas at last gave a shuddering sigh and loosened his hold, raising his head.  Gimli let his hands fall to his sides as Legolas withdrew and wiped a hand across his eyes.

“Thank you, my friend,” he whispered.  “Your steadfastness is a comfort to me, even now.”

“Even now,” Gimli repeated, pulling himself together and finding a chair of his own.  “Legolas, will you tell me at last what has befallen you, that you gaze unspeaking into distances no other can see, and mourn something I do not understand?  You spoke of gulls before – please speak now, and tell me what is wrong.”

Legolas looked down, but took a deep breath, and this time he spoke.  “The gulls, yes,” he said, his voice broken and faint.  “Gimli, do you remember the rhyme the Lady sent to me?”

“I” – Gimli cast his mind back.  He remembered news from the Lady, Gandalf speaking to Aragorn and Legolas rhymes that sounded distant and dismal.  But he was ashamed to admit that the joy of his own message from her had driven the details of the others from his mind.  “She spoke of the sea,” he ventured.  “I remember as much.”

“The sea.”  Legolas’s hands clenched around his knees and Gimli reached forward to cover them with his own.  His voice grew distant and he recited, “’ _If thou hearest the cry of the gull on the shore/Thy heart shall then rest in the forest no more_.’ But I did not think we would draw so near – and I thought she meant I risked my life.  This” –

“What is this?” Legolas spoke, as ever, like an elf – dancing always around and around the heart of the matter.  But Gimli could tell that they were approaching it, and he pressed Legolas’s hands as they tensed under his.

“Know you of elven sea-longing?” Legolas asked, pausing only long enough for Gimli to shake his head.  “I thought not.  It is not something that would be spoken of among dwarves – in fact, it is spoken of only scarcely even among my own people, the wood-elves.  I never thought it would strike me so, but” –

“But what is it?” Gimli asked, only now allowing himself some impatience.

Legolas sighed.  “You know that the presence of the elves is dwindling on Middle-earth.  This is common knowledge among all the races, I think.”  Gimli nodded, but Legolas did not seem to pay attention.  “We do not die naturally, not unless we fall in battle or separate our spirits from our bodies.  And yet, time wears on us as it does any mortal, if a bit more slowly.”  He looked up and managed a faint smile.  “But for us there is no fated end.  And so elves who have grown weary of their years, or sustained wounds to the spirit from which they cannot here recover, will travel across the sea to the land of Valinor, Elven-home, where hurts of body and spirit are healed, and they may live out their years in peace.”

Gimli did not understand what this had to do with Legolas, but he listened quietly as his friend continued to speak.  “We will all end up there someday, will all leave these shores for the home that awaits us.  I am young, for an elf, and I thought not to grow weary of Middle-earth for thousands of years yet.  But there is a call” –

He broke off.  Dread was building in Gimli’s heart, but he held his silence still, even as Legolas’s hands tensed and relaxed compulsively beneath his own.  “Legend has it that some elves, if they venture too close to the sea, will hear the call of the West, and from then on they will find no peace on these shores until they follow it.  I never paid the stories much heed, for I did not expect it to touch me.  But now” – He stopped again and shuddered, drawing his hands out of Gimli’s to press them to his face once more.

Gimli could not reach for him.  Cold crept through his belly, pinning him to his chair.  But this time, it seemed, Legolas had broken off his speech for good, so it was for Gimli to speak.

“You have felt this call, then?” he asked.  Ah, but what was his voice become? He could scarcely recognize the croaking whisper that issued from his throat.  “This – sea-longing?”

“Yes,” Legolas whispered.  “Alas! for the gulls; their voices pierce my very soul, and I shall find no more peace on these shores.  I have not yet seen the sea, but I find I need not: already my ears are full of the roar of the surf, and in dreams I shall ever see the waves beckoning me to lands I have never beheld.”  His face sank; keeping it in his hands, he braced his elbows on his knees and hunched over.

The second heartbeat had changed now, had slowed and sunk into Gimli’s stomach where it beat against his hollow insides like a falling rock.  “So you will leave, then?  You will heed this call and travel to your Elven-home” – His throat tightened so far around the words that he could barely force them out – “and dwell in peace for all eternity?” _You will leave me?_ he almost added.  That was not fair, he knew it, but somehow it felt as though his very heart bled at the thought.  He cast his thoughts ahead to the future – if, of course, there was to be one – and felt a cold emptiness at the thought of living the rest of his years without Legolas by his side.

He could not, he realized suddenly.  How Legolas had become so dear to him in so short a time he did not know, but he had, and now –

“I know not,” said Legolas.  With a sudden swiftness he dashed his hands across his face and dropped them to his sides, springing up from the chair in the same motion and pacing across the room in jerky steps.  “Ah, what am I doing?  There is no time for this, no time!”  He swung around and paced back to stand before Gimli where he sat.  “I have not yet seen the sea; this is but the onset: the first, hardest blow.  I know now what to expect; it will not hit me so hard again.  And there is no time for mourning what cannot be undone.”  He brought his hands up to his face once more and pushed them violently through his hair, taking fistfuls when he had reached the ends and tugging.  “I beg your pardon, Gimli, for my self-indulgent musings, and I am grateful for your patience with my foolishness” –

“Hold,” Gimli said softly, standing now, and reaching to disentangle Legolas’s fingers from his own hair.  “Apologize not, my friend; your griefs do not matter less merely because there are other, more urgent troubles to attend to.”  His own grief was another matter, but it was best tended to later, once he had time to sit and think over these unexpected swellings of emotion.  “But I think you are right – no decision need be made now.  If it does not pain you too much, stay on these shores to finish our quest – and see if this Middle-earth can yet be saved.  I would not have you leave us before our purpose is achieved.”

“And I would not leave,” Legolas promised.  “I would not be proven faithless in your eyes, my friend.”  He gave Gimli a smile: wavering and weak, but an attempt.

“Never,” Gimli said, forcing himself to smile back.  He suddenly felt a great weariness upon him, after the long days of riding, and the battle, and the weighty conversation.  “But now I think it is time to bathe and rest, that we may better continue our quest on the morrow.”

“I think you are right,” Legolas said.  “And I thank thee once more – for all the patience and kindness thou hast shown me, on this day and all the rest.  Truly, I know not where I would be without thy strength.”  And before Gimli could demur, Legolas took his face between his hands and bent to place a light kiss on Gimli’s brow.

They bathed and readied themselves for bed in silence after that.  The room had only one bed, but Legolas had insisted Gimli take it, citing his ability to sleep in any position.  Gimli had tried to protest, but Legolas had laid his bedroll out on the floor and climbed into it, turning his back stubbornly and refusing to be moved.  Gimli could not tell if he truly slept or if he only feigned it, if the distance in his eyes was born of sleep or this strange new longing, but either way, the room soon grew dark and silent, and snug under blankets, Gimli finally allowed himself a moment to think.

He had much to think about.  This sudden closeness with Legolas – for all that he had grown so used to taking his hands, stilling his nervous twitching, for all that his own hands had grown used to their position at Legolas’s waist, there was a newness today: in Legolas’s desperate embrace, in his requests to be held.  In Gimli’s own reaction: the unexpected speeding of his heart and breathing.  And then this fear – this desperate, wrenching grief at the thought of Legolas leaving Middle-earth, of having to travel the rest of his years alone.

But why, he had to then ask, was he so certain he would be alone?

He tried to imagine it: to picture himself traveling by the side of another.  Bringing someone not Legolas to the Glittering Caves, to show off their wonder.  Returning to Erebor, perhaps remaining in Gondor – his path was not yet clear, but he tried to picture himself traveling it with anyone other than Legolas, and could not.  And then he pictured himself traveling it alone, because Legolas had left him behind, and felt a ripping pain, as though his heart were being torn in two.

 _As though his heart were being torn in two_.  That –

That was how his uncle had spoken to his mother, he remembered, when talking about the death of his wife.  How his friend Ain had described the realization that the one he loved was enamored of another.  That, he realized, was the feeling of losing a love.

At that thought his heart slowed suddenly, each beat loud and hollow and pointed.  His breath came cold into his chest and belly.  _Love_.

He swallowed hard and lifted himself, rustling the blankets as little as possible, to look on Legolas.  His vision was better than his friend’s in the dark, and he could make out Legolas’s face clearly: eyes still open and distant, in a way that assured Gimli that he was finally dreaming.  His face did not seem peaceful, not exactly, but it was still as though carved: smooth skin, delicate nose, wide forehead and mouth.  _Beautiful_ , Gimli thought now, in a way he had never thought to consider his friend.  His was not the radiant beauty of the Lady Galadriel that had pierced Gimli’s heart at one glance – but it was softer, humbler.  More befitting of Legolas, anyway, he thought, and at the thought a wave of tenderness broke over him, so strong that he had to avert his eyes, roll back into his blankets, and affix his gaze to the ceiling.

Love.  Did he love Legolas?

He did, of course.  He had known for some time that he felt an affection for the elf beyond anything that would be excused by his people.  But he had never wondered if that affection was what he would feel for a lover.  Dwarves loved once and Gimli had never loved before, so he had nothing with which to compare this feeling, and yet –

He had taken bed-partners before; that was no unusual thing, but now he tried to imagine himself ever doing such a thing again, with another dwarf.  Tried to imagine himself cleaving to another, swearing himself to that person for the rest of his days, and he could not.

Then he tried to imagine doing both of those things with Legolas.

Unbidden the memory of their embrace rushed back into his head; the memory of their days on horseback: his face pressed into the back of Legolas’s tunic, that scent of flesh and sweat and fresh water; and his heart thumped hard once more, sudden heat filling his face and his insides.  He realized now how right it had felt holding Legolas in his arms – and suddenly he could not imagine that place being filled by another.

Love.  That was love.  The knowledge settled around him in a rush of mingled euphoria and grief.  His father’s face sprang into his head, and he had to bite his fist against a sudden swell of hysterical laughter – but at the same time, he knew that it had taken the very real threat of losing Legolas, a threat that still existed, to make him realize it, and at that thought he found himself wanting to weep.

Ah, it was too much!  It was too much for this night, for this time, for this war still going on!  He could not even think of this now, let alone speak of it.  And he would not hold Legolas back, not if his heart’s desire was to leave – even if it made Gimli’s own heart cold to think of it.  He would not, could not think of it now.  This night was for resting, for preparing to ride once more to battle in the morning, for making the plans to lead them – hopefully – to the end, and to the saving of all of them.

But for all that, Gimli found little rest that night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm taking the headcanon about dwarves' sex lives from many other stories I've read, because I like it.
> 
> Also, the more I think about it, the more concerned I get that lines in this and the last chapter are unconsciously echoing other people's sea-longing scenes. I didn't mean to do so when I wrote them, but I'd read so much fic that I guess it was bound to influence me a bit. Those stories would probably be Dorinda's "The Sound Below Sound" and determamfidd's "Sansukh." And if there are others that this scene sounds like, please point them out to me. I feel like words and phrases have been borrowed from those scenes, and I promise I didn't intentionally plagiarize. I'm hoping they're different enough that I can leave the words as I arranged them, but please let me know if you find this too similar or in any way offensive. *hides face*


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there's a war going on, and Legolas and Gimli are bad at saying the things they need to.

Legolas spoke little the next day, following Aragorn’s directions without comment and joining the other warriors on the captured ships.  He drew into himself as best he could with the clamor of men and distressed horses who did not want to board the ships, with the readying of banners and weapons for whatever they might find when they arrived in Gondor, with the never-ending, screaming calls of sea-birds wrenching his thoughts ever out and up and away.  He had much to think about.

Even amidst the wreck that had been made of his spirit by one single sound, there was space for a hot, pulsing indignation.  This longing was not _his_ – Sindar he might be, but he was as much Silvan, by blood and by upbringing, and the true love of his heart had ever been directed at the forests and green places of the world.  _This_ world, not another told of now only in stories, remembered by a very, very few.  And the stories were not those of his folk, either – even his father spoke not of Aman, taking on the mantle of forest-king as easily as one born to it, beloved by his Silvan subjects as much as if he were one of them.

And even if it were to be one of his children!  Legolas would never have wanted Laerwen to leave, but if either of them felt the Sindar blood flowing strongly, it was she. And she had less than Legolas to hold her to this world – her wife Siril had sailed centuries ago, and awaited her in Valinor already.

And that thought – of loves, of separation, and of being held to the world – brought Legolas’s mind to the place it had been trying to avoid, and for the first time, he let his gaze drift away from his knees and over to Gimli, who sat beside him.

Gimli, who despite his own reluctance to travel by water (had he been in a more playful mood, Legolas might have compared him to the horses and laughed to hear him sputter) had displayed the courage of his heart and boarded their ship without a word of complaint.  Gimli, who had just days past endured a journey that had cast a darkness over his soul with loyalty and determination and a steadfastness that made Legolas’s very heart shiver.  Gimli, who had held him yesterday with arms as gentle and strong as green wood, and who stayed patiently quiet today, giving him the space he needed.  Gimli, whom he loved.

Gimli, whose life had not even two centuries left in it.

It was not fair or right, at this time, to think of the future: not when the next weeks, even days, were themselves so uncertain; not when so much rested on the too-small shoulders of two hobbits whose fates they did not yet even know.  And yet Legolas could not help thinking of it, for in the long span of his life as it had been and would be, were not one hundred fifty years almost so small a time?  Legolas could feel himself losing his elven sense of time – could feel it slipping away with every beat of Gimli’s heart, with every line that seemed to appear daily in Aragorn’s face.  He would have to live as mortals did, for these mortals who had become so dear to him.  Would have to learn to cherish every precious moment of time – but how could he do that, when his time on Middle-earth seemed to be so rent with an agony that did not belong to him?

He leaned forward, shoulders bent under the weight of these two griefs: so similar, and yet so different, and put his head into his hands.

A heavy hand fell onto his shoulder, warmth seeping through his tunic and into his skin – indeed, into his very blood.  “Legolas?”

He made a noise of acknowledgment without removing his hands.  To look on Gimli’s face now might destroy him.

The voice was infinitely gentle.  “Are you well?”

“As well as can be.”  The warmth of his own breath filled the space between his fingers and his eyes.  Above, another gull cried, and he flinched.

Gimli’s hand twitched against him, and then lifted away.  Legolas felt suddenly cold at its absence.  He thought to ask Gimli to replace it – but no.  He had taken too many liberties already in these last days.

“Is there anything I can do?”  The warmth in his voice, anyway, was almost as good.

“Be here.”  For all that Gimli’s presence, his own love, complicated the longing, it all seemed to hurt just a bit less with Gimli beside him.  “Just be here.”

“I go nowhere,” Gimli promised, settling himself more firmly into his seat.

Legolas almost broke then, almost told him more of the longing in his heart and soul – _all_ of the longing.  But he could not, not now – he had not the strength, and it was not the time.

“Thank you,” he said instead, keeping his face in his hands, and he pretended to himself that Gimli’s words meant forever.

* * *

For his part, Gimli too spoke little that day.

When he rose in the morning, the first thing he did was look around for Legolas.  Habit, perhaps, after the long days of sleeping so close to one another, watching one another’s backs.  He found the space on the floor where Legolas had slept empty, his bedroll clearly already packed up and his belongings absent.  And it was only in taking in Legolas’s absence that the revelation of last night crashed back onto Gimli.

His face grew abruptly warm and warmer, until he pressed his hands to his cheeks over his beard in the hopes of cooling himself down, and he was glad of Legolas’s absence so that he could take a moment to compose himself.

But the reason for that realization followed directly, and Gimli jolted upright again, eyes sweeping the room with purpose.  Legolas had not been well last night, wounded in spirit if not in body, and Gimli worried to have him wandering on his own – who knew what this sea-longing could accomplish, and moreover it was not safe to be alone these days; if an enemy had found Legolas in such a state of mind –

He hurried, then: washing with the fresh water that had been set in the corner of the room – that at least was a sign that Legolas had taken the time to think of him – and dressing in haste, then packing up his own items and leaving the room in search of his friend.

He ran into Aragorn first, though, on his way to the stables to see if Legolas had gone there.  “Aragorn,” he said, eliciting such a start that he wondered if Aragorn had seen him at all, or had been looking entirely over his head.  It did not exactly put Gimli in a friendly mood, but then, he supposed Aragorn had much to worry about.  “Have you seen Legolas?”

That was enough to get Aragorn to focus on him.  “Gimli,” he said, and the weariness in his eyes made Gimli forgive him for his inattention.  “Ah – yes; he was out here early this morning, but he would not speak to me, and only stared mournfully into the distance.”  His hand clamped suddenly on Gimli’s shoulder, full attention now on him.  “Did he speak to you, last night, about what ails him?”

“He did.”  Gimli hesitated; surely if Legolas had not told Aragorn it was not his business to do so, but he thought that the elf could use a few friends looking out for his well-being now.  “He says it is a strange elvish affliction: a sea-longing?” He looked up at Aragorn, almost hoping that he would say that it was something temporary, that it would pass –

But Aragorn’s face fell.  “I had feared it was so,” he said sadly.  “Would that I had remembered the Lady’s riddle earlier – but haste was upon me, and in truth I did not think we would venture so near to the sea” –

“He said it was the gulls,” Gimli said.  “That they stirred some longing in his heart for an elvish land far away” –

Aragorn’s head sank, and his hand came up to rub wearily at his forehead.  “Ah,” he said.

His tired, sad looks did not give Gimli confidence, but still he grasped at Aragorn’s arm with sudden desperation.  “Is there no hope then, Aragorn?” he said.  “Will he then leave us so soon?  Are there tales of elves resisting this longing?”

“I know not,” said Aragorn.  “Indeed, none can say.  It varies for all elves, though I know of few who have tarried for long after the call struck.  But Legolas has a strong spirit – he may yet resist, given proper reason.  I do not think he wishes to leave us, not yet.”

“Nor do I,” said Gimli, remembering Legolas’s distress the night before.  “And is there aught we can do, to inspire him to stay?  I would not have him leave, not now I” –

He clamped his mouth shut and felt his face grow red again.

Aragorn’s eyebrows drew together, and he opened his mouth as though to ask a question – and then his eyes sparkled, his lips turning up into a sudden smile.  Gimli blushed harder, and broke their gaze.

“I know not,” Aragorn said.  “But I would wager if any of us can, then you, Master Dwarf.”  He thumped Gimli’s shoulder a few times.  “Go to him.  I am sure your presence will be a comfort.”  And Gimli could hear the knowing smile in his voice still, and practically feel it on his back as he walked away.

He was quiet after that: even once he found Legolas, the elf seemed reluctant to speak, lost in his own mind.  Perhaps Gimli should have tried to distract him, pull him out of his morose thoughts – but in truth, he had much to think about himself.  He kept finding himself reaching over to take Legolas’s hand, or touch his shoulder or his face, and then stopping, suddenly uncertain, and wondering at himself.  All the ease of their friendship, which had been so clear to him without thought, seemed shaken and knocked sideways in the wake of last night’s epiphany.

And yet he could not stop his eyes from straying: following the wind-blown wisps of Legolas’s hair, black against the open sky, or the dark-brown sheen when rays of light angled over it.  The silk-smooth of his skin, the stillness of his face, the mournful distance of his eyes.  Whenever he moved, even if just to raise a hand to his face, the motion caught Gimli’s gaze and tugged it along, and his heart stuttered at the grace.

Memories of the night before raced through his mind: Legolas’s slender, strong form wrapped in his arms.  Legolas’s voice, musical even while raised in distress, asking to be held.  Legolas’s lips, pressed to his forehead –

And King of Gondor or no, if Aragorn did not stop turning to look at him with that mischievous glint in his eye, Gimli was going to deal some swift retribution.

Thus the day passed: in mournful or discomfited silence, even as the ships rocked and swayed on the river, and the sea-birds swooped overhead, and the men murmured amongst themselves.  Gimli knew not on what the others thought, and he cared not to wonder: his mind was enough occupied with his own troubles.

Then suddenly Legolas snapped to attention beside him.  “Aragorn,” he said sharply.  “We sail into battle.”

Aragorn stood abruptly from the bow of the ship, pacing over to them (and keeping his balance admirably on the rocking water). “What do you see, Legolas?” he asked.

Gimli looked up, though all he could see was vague motion on the horizon.  He, too, waited on Legolas’s response.

“They fight,” Legolas said.  “Gondor is beset by the hordes of Mordor; Rohan’s forces have joined them, but still they are outnumbered.  We arrive, I think, just in time.”

“Thank you,” Aragorn said.  “They will think we are the enemy at first – perhaps that is to our advantage.”  He stood up, thinking.  “I will ask Halbarad to ready the banner.”

They both watched Aragorn stand and walk to his kinsman, and Gimli reached out to Legolas, their eyes meeting at last.  Pushing down his own sudden uncertainty, Gimli put a hand on Legolas’s arm – now was not the time to fret.  “Will you be well, to fight?” he asked.

“I must.”  Legolas smiled weakly at him.  “Fear not, my friend – I will not falter again.  But I thank you for your concern.”  He laid a hand atop Gimli’s, where it rested still on his arm.  “You need not worry for me.”

“Of course I worry for you,” said Gimli, hiding in gruffness.  “Archery is all well and good, but that knife of yours is no replacement for a solid axe.  Always I worry that I will find you have been overcome.”

Legolas did not completely rise to the bait, but his eyes sparkled, and Gimli’s breath caught in his throat, so that he had to clear it.  “Your concern is welcomed and returned,” he said, squeezing Gimli’s fingers.  “And we will meet once more unharmed at the end of the battle, to compare stories and counts of enemies, yes?”

“Yes,” Gimli echoed, as their ships drew closer to the raging field of battle.

* * *

They stayed close during the fight – as close as they could, anyway.  Gimli did not entirely trust Legolas’s assessment of his own mental soundness, and kept his friend in sight as much as he could: covering his back as Legolas bent to retrieve arrows from fallen foes and nock them again.  For his part, Legolas seemed equally reluctant to let Gimli out of his sight, except when their backs were close enough together that Gimli could practically feel the heat of his friend against him, even outside his mail.

They worked well together, anyway – they had fought side by side in smaller skirmishes with the rest of the Fellowship, but it was the battle at Pelargir that had taught them how much better they could fight when they watched one another’s backs.  It was comforting for Gimli to be close to Legolas as well – he was truly deadly in close combat, swift and graceful as a wildcat with his long white knife, but that knife was so small compared to the swords, axes, and maces that their enemies carried, and more than once Gimli hewed down an enemy approaching Legolas when he was already occupied with too many.  In return, a sound from behind became familiar to Gimli: a choking gasp as Legolas’s arrows took his would-be attackers in the throat.

Inevitably, the tide of battle swept them apart.  Gimli worried less for Legolas during those times than he had the day before.  He had seen the look on Legolas’s face, in the moments he had been able to surface and take it in: closed-up determination, icy focus.  He had seen enough arrows find targets in hearts, throats, eyes, those sure hands at the bowstring never faltering, that knife slashing and stabbing.

Legolas was beautiful in battle, a part of him noted, but he was glad at least that he hadn’t allowed himself to become too distracted.

It seemed, though, that Legolas had been more worried than he during the time they had separated; scanning the battlefield for the sight of his friend, it was Legolas’s voice that he heard first: almost frantic, calling his name.  “Gimli? Gimli!”

“Legolas?” he responded, spinning around to look and trusting in his friend’s superior senses to find him.  “I am here, Legolas.  Where are you?”

Legolas appeared at his side, bruised and disheveled, hair escaping its braids and eyes wide in a tense face.  His hand fell onto Gimli’s shoulder, stronger than it looked, and he spun Gimli around, eyes seeming to catalogue all of him.  Gimli had sustained numerous cuts and bruises, but nothing serious: the worst wound a long but shallow gash to the arm.  Legolas gave a relieved-sounding sigh when he saw him.

“Forgive me my worry, Gimli – I find that since Helm’s Deep I dislike being separated from you in battle.”

“No blame,” Gimli assured him.  “I am glad in turn to see you well.”

They had been lucky, they found out, to be so little wounded as they were; Theoden had fallen before the Witch-king, and Eowyn and Merry had been grievously wounded felling the same.  And how long had the battle raged on, then, that such a conflict had occurred before even their ships had arrived?  They both wished to check on Merry, but he was being tended to by the healers and Aragorn – who had finally announced himself the King of Gondor – there was so much to attend to, which they could best help with by staying out of the way.

The healers were busy, Aragorn not least among them, and had no time to tend to such minor wounds, which suited Gimli and Legolas well.  So they took what they needed from the Houses of Healing, and retreated outside to tend one another’s wounds in peace.

Gimli turned to Legolas, planning to offer his services in inspection first, but Legolas had already knelt before him and urged him to do the same.  “Please, my friend,” he said, when Gimli would have protested.  “Allow me to assure myself of your safety.”

“Very well,” Gimli managed, though his stomach fluttered as he sat back and allowed his friend to approach him.

Legolas pulled Gimli’s helm from his head first, running gentle hands over his head and neck.  Cold warmth began at his scalp, where Legolas’s fingers brushed through his hair, and spilled down into his stomach: ice by a fireplace.  “No wounds here, this time?” Legolas murmured.  “Your helm provided the protection it was meant to give?”

“I’ll have you know that was an isolated incident,” protested Gimli, but it was hard to muster any true indignation when Legolas’s hands shaped his skull and traced down the bones of spine in his neck.  “And I was not struck upon the head.”

“If you were, would you remember?”  Legolas moved a finger back and forth before his face, and Gimli followed it obligingly with his eyes.  At last seeming satisfied, Legolas sat back on his heels and reached for the next item: a cloth, which he soaked from his waterskin.  Gimli sat quietly as Legolas dabbed at his wounds, the stinging of pressure at the cuts warring with the warm pleasure at Legolas’s touch.

Finished, he examined the gash on Gimli’s arm – it was shallow and needed no stitching, but opened up again at the slightest touch, so Legolas bandaged it carefully, and then finally sat back.  “Have you any further injuries?”

“None but the stiffness that will set in from long hours of fighting.”  Gimli shifted and grimaced.  “Now sit back and let me see to you.”

Legolas went obediently still, and Gimli surveyed him for wounds.  He had no obvious injuries greater than the same scrapes and bruises that Gimli had sustained, so he began by performing the same check Legolas had done: feeling at his head and neck.  He lifted the slender braids aside to feel at the skull beneath them, ran his hands through the unbound hair – somehow silky, even matted with dust and sweat. (And if he took more pleasure in the act than he should have, no one need be the wiser.) Legolas’s head was sound, but when Gimli trailed his hands down the back of his neck, the heel of his hand nudged at the side of Legolas’s throat, and Legolas flinched, jerking back.

“Legolas?” Gimli said, alarmed.  He probed at the same spot again, this time with a careful finger, and watched Legolas’s face go ashen, his body stiffening up.

Gimli swept Legolas’s hair back from his face, to give himself a better view.  The marks showed up less on Legolas’s darker skin, but when he bent his head close, he could see faint bruises in the shape of fingers.  “Legolas,” he breathed.  “When did this happen?”

Legolas shrugged, avoiding Gimli’s eyes.  “Not long before the end of the battle,” he admitted.  “Fear not” – and now he looked up to meet Gimli’s gaze – “I was in no true danger of death; I fought them off in the end.”

But Gimli could not breathe for a moment, thinking about fingers closing around Legolas’s throat, the life draining from his eyes.  He closed his own, fighting it, but then Legolas’s hand came to rest gently on his.  “I am well, Gimli,” he said.  “I promise.”

Gimli opened his eyes again, and realized how close together their faces had drawn.  Legolas’s dark eyes shone in the light, looking into his own; Legolas’s collarbone was warm under his hand, and his fingers light on top of Gimli’s.  His heart pounded hollowly a few times, and then he sighed.  “I know,” he said.  “I am – merely glad.  That you live still.”

“As am I.”  Legolas gave him a small smile.  “But I would not die, not when we have a task still to complete.”

That broke the moment; Gimli pulled back and found the salve for bruising that they had taken.  “Will you be comfortable if I dress it with this?” he asked.  “I will have to touch your throat – I understand if you would rather do it yourself.”

Legolas swallowed, as though uncertain, but instead of speaking he closed his eyes and tipped his head back, baring his throat and neck to Gimli with a trust that humbled him.  Gimli dipped his fingers into the pot of salve and began to spread it gently over the bruises on Legolas’s skin, hoping that the elf would not feel the trembling in his fingers.

Few words passed between them after that, but they stayed outside for longer than they needed to, finding comfort in silence and one another.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Though I like to think that I've done it fairly differently from them, the idea of Legolas being choked in battle and Gimli helping him came from spinel's "Comfort after Endurance" and Thundera Tiger's "Hunting" (on ff.net).


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Fellowship meets the end. More drabbles from Gondor to the final battle.

“You spoke much of the Sea to Merry and Pippin,” said Gimli quietly, after they had left their wounded friend behind in the Houses of Healing.  “More than you told me at the first.”

Legolas heard the hurt behind the words, and it cut him as deeply as it did Gimli.  “I had had less time to think on it when I spoke to you,” was all he could think to say.  It was both the truth and not the truth.

What he could not say: _The thought of leaving him hurts me less than the thought of leaving you._

* * *

“We ride on the Black Gates,” Aragorn informed them solemnly when he found them again after his council.  “As soon as possible – to buy our small friends as much time as we can.  Do you go with me?”

“I would not be proven faithless at the last,” said Gimli: chin proud, arms crossed, his body held with a warrior’s determination.

“Wherever your road leads, we travel it with you,” Legolas added, remembering once more the crown of stars, the feeling that he belonged on this quest.

It did not need to be said that they would not be coming back.

* * *

Neither Gimli nor Legolas said much on their long ride to the Gates of the Morannon: little in the beginning and even less as time went on.  What was there to say, after all?

They had had the discussions, in times gone by – the things people spoke of when riding to war, with the fear of never returning.  They had spoken of their families, of their people, of their friends.  They had dreamed of what they would do when they returned home safely.

There was only one conversation they had not had – and that one, neither could bear to initiate.

* * *

“I would have you know,” Legolas said quietly, as they amassed their forces at the end, waited for the messenger to parley with them.  “This is not the way I would have had it end – but I am glad, today, to die fighting the forces of Sauron.  And gladder to die with you by my side.”

Gimli took a long look at Legolas: dark hair braided back from his brow, the rest flowing free; face carved to shining perfection; eyes deep and earnest.  Branded the sight of him into his memory.

“I feel the same,” he said, squeezing Legolas’s hand.

* * *

Legolas’s quiver was emptied in a matter of minutes. He hardly needed to choose targets: draw, aim, release; one foe dropped and another took its place.  He simply pointed his bow in one direction and shot, shot, shot until his arrows were all spent.

His style of close combat was not meant for such a battle: for this press of enemies, so many at a time.  He kept his bow ready, shooting when he could retrieve arrows, but already he felt the pressure upon him, his long knife so small against the heavy weapons and hordes.

He felt suddenly alone.

* * *

“Gimli!” he cried. “ _Gimli_!”

But Gimli was gone, swallowed up by the shrieking, raging hordes.  Legolas could not look for him; it was all he could do to keep his own back covered, though part of him wanted to throw away his own life in reckless abandon, for the sake of finding his friend – but Gimli would not forgive him if he died merely out of distraction, so he kept his wits about him, his knife at the ready, his body in motion.

Still.  If they were to die, he would have it be together.

He did not stop searching.

* * *

Gimli heard Legolas crying his name, but could not spare the breath for a response.  He was too taken up with his own battle, what felt like five blades crashing down on his axe at any given time, and it was all he could do to deflect them.

Still, the sound of Legolas’s voice reminded him that his friend was still alive, still fighting, and that gave Gimli hope.

He remembered, though, the worry in Legolas’s eyes after Pelennor, even after Helm’s Deep.  He would fret – and perhaps it would distract him.

“Here!” he managed to call out.  “Legolas!  Here!”

* * *

They stayed together as they could – not always in view, but at least nearby, hearing one another’s voices, shouting strength to the other when they could spare the breath.  It felt better to be nearby, if not as close as they had been before, as they might have liked.

They fought: through pain, and exhaustion, and fear dulled in constancy, and always the slight surprise at every minute further that they found themselves alive.  Fought through the roaring of the hordes and the cries of the fallen and the shrieking of the Nazgul.

Fought until the tide began to change.

* * *

It happened slowly, and then all at once.

The Nazgul went first – shrieking together in a sudden cacophonous harmony that drove Gimli to his knees, with only enough wherewithal to lift his axe as a blade came clanging down on it.  But there was a change in the air – a lessening of tension, a rushing – and then the enemies were fewer, three to one where there had been five –

And then there were none.

He did not understand it, but they were fleeing, were turning and milling in confusion, and running, overwhelmingly, away.

And slowly he realized: it was over.

* * *

 “Legolas!”

The sound of Gimli’s voice brought life back into Legolas’s exhausted body and heart; where he had lacked even the energy to hunt for arrows to shoot down the fleeing hordes, he found the strength at last to turn and set his eyes once more on that beloved face.

Gimli was filthy, blood and grime and sweat caked in his beard and smearing his cheeks, but his eyes burned with the same fire as ever, and Legolas smiled to see it.

“Gimli,” he breathed, and let his hand fall onto his friend’s shoulder.

Gimli’s hand rose to cover it.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this is so short. The thing is, I'm terrible with battles - and there wasn't much more that I had to say about this time frame. I kind of think everything's happening a little too fast for any real confession scenes - and honestly I just don't think they've figured it out yet.


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Fellowship stays in Gondor for the weeks leading up to Aragorn's wedding.

They tended one another’s wounds again in the jumbled, blurring aftermath of the battle, barely able even to kneel upright in the exhaustion and relief at finding one another safe and alive, of watching their enemies fall or flee, of knowing that Frodo and Sam had accomplished their task, and been returned alive if not quite whole.  There would be much to arrange in the coming days, weeks, months to come – but now they took comfort in the gentle touch and warmth of friends’ hands, the ease between them, the healing that came from their togetherness more than any treatment.

* * *

“They look so small,” Legolas whispered.

“Not so much smaller than I,” Gimli countered.

“You know what I mean.”

They stared at the limp figures of Frodo and Sam in their beds: thin and gaunt, faces – even in this deep, hopefully healing sleep – haunted and hollow.

“We can only hope that they will heal,” Gimli said finally, “and that they will be granted peace after all their efforts.”

Legolas brushed a slender hand over each of their foreheads, murmuring something that sounded like an elvish blessing.

When he had finished, Gimli reached out and caught the hand in his own.

* * *

Ithilien was lovely.

Oh, certainly it was wounded and scarred, brought low after being so long encroached upon by evil.  But it was beautiful even despite that, and the lands fairly vibrated with the promise of health and beauty, in the right hands.

Legolas’s own hands itched, and he felt the land itself calling to him – for someone who knew what it could become.  Calling in the way he had feared nowhere on Middle-earth would again.

The sea still called him home – but Ithilien whispered to him of a temporary home, at least for the years that he had left.

* * *

The King of Gondor was crowned.

Legolas gazed up at the crown on Aragorn’s brow – a true crown, now, not only one that appeared before his eyes – and the dignity in his carriage.  Then he gazed at the small hobbits who sat beside him, with a greatness of spirit belied by their height, and he felt his own body straighten in pride.

These were his friends.  These great heroes and dignified lords, these who had carried the fate of the world on their shoulders – these were his friends.

Across the steps of the palace, he caught Gimli’s eye and smiled.

* * *

Gimli was glad, now, that Aragorn had asked them to stay with him for a time.

He knew not what was to come – though he knew Legolas did, from his mischievous glances at Aragorn – but he found he was not eager to make any plans for the future just yet.  Not when he did not know Legolas’s heart: whether, now that their task had been fulfilled, he intended to follow the gulls and take to the sea.  And not when he could not bring himself to ask.

For as long as he could, he would take what he could get.

* * *

Gimli spent his days wandering the city, examining the stonework of each level, making his plans.  Aragorn had asked him to bring some of his kin here in the days to come, to build fine new gates and rebuild what needed fixing, and Gimli had taken to the idea with enthusiasm.

Legolas conducted his own examination, but in the gardens and parks.  The city had been too long dead, and was still filled with far too much stone – it needed life brought back.  He found that he wished to aid in the healing of the city, not just the saving.

* * *

It was strange to be together once more with so little purpose.  Instead of bedrolls at night, they slept in bedrooms: each in their own except for Frodo and Sam, who insisted on cleaving together.  Instead of arranging watches, they chose their own bedtimes and all slept.

Except when Frodo woke moaning from nightmares, and Sam soothed him down.  When Pippin came to breakfast with a washed face poorly concealing tears.  When Legolas could not rest until all the others were asleep, and Gimli woke reaching for his axe.

Peace, it seemed, was not so easy as they had imagined.

* * *

Legolas had his own bedroom, but rarely used it. He rested instead outside in the garden and spent long evenings singing quietly on the balcony.

“Why?” Sam asked him one night.  Once Legolas had begun speaking comfortably to all of them, Sam had wasted no opportunity to ask him about elvish ways.  And Legolas, sensing his earnest curiosity, was always happy to answer.

“I am simply happier in the open air, Master Hobbit,” he said, “than in any house of stone, however lovely.”

And if the others noted that Gimli’s bedroom was closest to the balcony, no one mentioned it.

* * *

Legolas was kneeling in the garden, bent in rapt concentration over a tiny green plant that Gimli could not have identified at knifepoint.  He did not even look up at Gimli’s footsteps.

“Legolas.” Gimli laid a hand on his shoulder. “Sam has called us for dinner.”

Legolas looked up, brushing his hair back and leaving a smear of dirt across his cheek.  “Gimli!” he said in delight.  “See how well the seedlings are growing – they sense that the world is now at peace.”

Gimli thought that were he a seedling, faced with that smile, he, too would want to grow.

* * *

 

Sam knew that he and Frodo had missed much on their own journey.  But he had not expected something like this.

“Mr. Merry,” he ventured, when it was just the two of them.  Merry seemed the person to ask – he was less likely to blab than Pippin, but easier to approach than Gandalf or Strider.  “Are Legolas and Gimli – they’re not – lovers, are they?”

Merry groaned.

“What is it?” Sam asked, wondering if his question had truly been so foolish.

“My dear Sam,” said Merry, leaning close.  “Truthfully, I’ve no idea – in fact, I was hoping _you_ had a guess.”


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aragorn weds. Legolas and Gimli have some important conversations - but not with one another.

Legolas spotted the delegation first, from where he sat out in the garden.  Saw the disturbance on the horizon, climbed the nearest tree to get a better look – and smiled.

He had not known Aragorn well before the beginning of their journey – only the brief encounter when the prisoner had been transferred – but he had known of this day for years before that.  Gossip did not travel easily between Rivendell and Mirkwood, but the Evenstar was known to all – and such a choice of partner as she had made did not stay secret for long.  Legolas had had no real opinion on the matter at first, but through their journey, their battles, and now their time of peace, Aragorn had become a dear friend, and – even if this did mark the end of the group’s directionless time in Gondor – Legolas was happy to see him happy.

He entered the house singing and did not stop all morning, even as he set water on to boil for tea, chopped vegetables for Sam (who still would not allow anyone else to do the cooking) to use for breakfast.  The others commented on his good mood, but he told them nothing.  He would wait for the visitor who would inevitably arrive.

And arrive he did, a few hours later.

“My friends,” said Aragorn at the door.  He never visited them alone anymore, always trailed by at least two guards, but those guards at least stayed at the entrance to the courtyard, letting Aragorn approach the door himself.  “We receive guests – illustrious guests – and for all I am told I must travel in state, I would have you accompany me to greet them.”

“Is this what has you in such good spirits?” demanded Gimli of Legolas, but Legolas said nothing, and Gimli turned to Aragorn instead.  “Who are these illustrious guests?”

“You will see soon enough,” was all Aragorn said, and Legolas was glad he had not shared his friend’s secret.  But Aragorn turned a mischievous smile on Gimli.  “And I think you in particular will be pleased.”

Ah.  Legolas supposed he would, at that.

They prepared in haste and then accompanied Aragorn to the gates of the city. (“Shouldn’t you be waiting in your palace?” asked Pippin.  “You’re the King; it seems they should come to you.” But Aragorn just smiled once more, his excitement too much to contain.) And Legolas watched the delegation he had seen sharpen into even clearer figures, growing ever larger.

“Do you see them?” asked Aragorn, in uncharacteristic nervous excitement.

Legolas nodded.  “Soon you should be able to make them out as well.”  He could see them all clearly – Elrond in the lead, with Arwen Undomiel by his side, radiant as the moon.  And on her other side –

He could tell when Gimli saw her, for he gasped.  “Aragorn,” he said, voice choked.  “Is that” –

“The Lady Galadriel?” finished Frodo, gripping at something around his neck as he spoke.  Legolas flinched at the gesture, though he knew it no longer indicated the Ring, but rather the light that the Lady had given him.

“Indeed it is,” said Legolas, only now sobering up as he realized what this meant.  Remembered fully Gimli’s immediate infatuation, his impassioned declarations of love.  They had meant little at the time: only an indication of Legolas’s own perceived failures as a companion.  But now it meant something so much deeper, so much more frightening.

“You knew,” Gimli accused Legolas, even as he desperately smoothed down his clothing and finger-combed his beard, which he had of course already braided and neatened to perfection.

Legolas smiled, deliberately misunderstanding to keep the lightness and protect his own heart.  “Of course I knew,” he said easily.  “The betrothal of the Evenstar to a mortal was such news that even we backwoods Silvan folk knew of its happening.”

“You know what I mean!” hissed Gimli.  His neck was craned into the distance, as though to try to see her more clearly – Legolas could see her perfectly: glow diminished somewhat with the breaking of the Rings’ power, but still exquisite in every detail; beautiful, powerful, serene.  “You knew that the Lady would come, and you did not warn me of it!”

“I did not _know_ ,” Legolas corrected him.  “Certainly I suspected, but I could not be sure.  I lack her powers, you know.”  Something in his heart sank – for however Gimli might treasure his friendship, how could he ever hope to match the glory of the Lady?  To be sure, her love could never be given to Gimli fully; she was married, after all – but that did not mean that Gimli’s heart could not be entirely bound to her.  And beside the Lady, who would look at Legolas? – what was he, small, awkward, insecure, next to her radiance?

Gimli harrumphed beside him.  “You are being deliberately obtuse,” he grumbled.

“Come now, Gimli,” said Legolas, trying to push down the unwelcome feelings.  He would never ask Gimli, after all, for something he could not give, and for all the Lady would likely see them anyway as soon as she met his eyes – her power was diminished with the loss of the Ring, to be sure, but not _gone_ – there was no need to have them so close to the surface.  “We were in worse condition when we entered Lorien the first time, and you yourself less disposed to politeness.  Think you we could make a worse impression on her than we made at the first?”

Gimli just shrugged at that and let it lie, but he did give Legolas a fond smile.  And Legolas, too, remembered their first impression – remembered the Lady urging him to seek the friendship of his companions, remembered all that she had brought him.  And he knew he could never bring himself to resent her, because she had led him to such joy.

But it did not stop the twinge in his heart.

When the delegation finally arrived, the gates opened to welcome them, Aragorn strode forward and knelt before Lord Elrond.  “My lord,” he said.  “Father.”

“Your Majesty,” said Elrond in return, smiling in proud melancholy.  He reached down to draw Aragorn to his feet.  “My son.”  He set his hands on Aragorn’s shoulders and kissed his forehead, and Aragorn closed his eyes, looking more vulnerable than Legolas had ever seen him.

The Lady Galadriel greeted him next.  “Son of Arathorn,” she said in her rich, melodious voice.  “You have done well, and accomplished all the tasks set out for you.”

Aragorn bowed his head.  “Only with your guidance, Lady,” he said.  “I thank you for everything you have given me, and a part of my heart will ever reside in your wood.”

He turned last to the Lady Arwen, and emotions were so naked on his face that Legolas nearly needed to turn away.  He felt that he saw his own heart reflected in Aragorn’s eyes – his own heart, even as he felt the heat of Gimli beside him, even as he worried about what would become of his own future – but he saw the hope and love and joy and relief and sadness in Aragorn’s face, and he knew all that mixture of emotions in his own heart and his own mind –

“My lady,” said Aragorn, taking Arwen’s hand in his and bowing over it, to brush it with his lips.

She smiled, with all the certainty of one who had made a decision that she would not regret.  “My lord.”

They said no more, but only looked, and this time Legolas did have to turn.  He looked to Gimli instead, the first place his eyes always wanted to rest, and in the proud, dear face looking back at him he saw everything that he had seen pass between Aragorn and Arwen, and in that moment he wished to reach out for Gimli, hand actually twitched in his direction – but then he remembered the elves who still watched, elves who knew him so little and had no reason to have patience with him, and one elf whom Gimli revered above all others.  And at the thought of Gimli and the Lady his heart sped up involuntarily within his chest, and only by fisting his hands tightly in his own clothing could he keep from wringing them in desperation, and his gaze turned involuntarily back to the Lady –

\--and their eyes locked.

It was not the same connection as before; certainly weaker; he knew she could not read every thought in his mind, and her own presence was fainter, but still, he felt her look upon him with kindness and compassion, and laugh.  And he swore he heard the faintest voice in his mind.

 _Son of Thranduil,_ she said.  _Relax_.

* * *

The wedding was beautiful if hastily-prepared, the bride and groom could scarcely take their eyes off of each other, and Gimli thought that he had never before seen Aragorn so happy.  Joy radiated from every part of him; even his _hands_ seemed to smile, for all Gimli would have thought such a thing impossible, and his eyes shone.

Which was all very well for him, and Gimli was happy for him, but he had other concerns.

Legolas had made himself scarce after the ceremony, and Gimli knew not if that made him feel worse or better about any of it.  The _look_ in Aragorn’s eyes: that look of deep happiness, the fulfillment of all his dreams – Gimli could feel something like it in his own heart, or the yearning for something like it, and he found himself looking around more than once for Legolas.  And whenever he did not see him, he felt this strange mingled disappointment and relief: disappointment that his friend did not seem so keen to share this with him; relief that he did not have to look at Legolas and see the lack of matching expression in his own face.

Or – _would_ it be absent?

Gimli did not know; had tried for so long to determine it and still did not know.  And he was so afraid himself, afraid of frightening Legolas away – the elf’s friendship was a treasure he had never expected to receive, never expected even to _want_ , but now that he had it it had become the most priceless thing he owned.  To see Legolas become so comfortable around him, to be the one he reached for when nervous or upset – it was something Gimli would never have dreamed of having, but something that he could not give up, not for anything.  Not even for the possibility of more.

And yet, he had to ask himself – was he expected to approach, because Legolas himself would not?  Legolas was more comfortable with him than, he thought, with any other – but even then there were times when he still closed up, shied away, refused to speak of whatever he was thinking.  More often now than he had before – more often since he had heard the call of the gulls.

And that was another thing.  If Legolas wished to go over the sea, how could Gimli ever justify standing in his way?  How could he speak, if he knew he was holding Legolas back from the desire of his heart?

And so he sat now at his dear friend’s wedding, too heavy of heart and foot to dance, watching the hobbits teach Shire wedding-dances to what seemed like half the guests, with Legolas off somewhere else and no one by his side –

“You seem troubled, son of Glóin.”

Gimli started and turned, and started still more when he saw who sat beside him.  He jumped to his feet and bowed.  “My Lady!”

Lady Galadriel laughed.  “Peace, my champion.  Do not bestir yourself on my account.  I sought a place to sit and observe the festivities, and you seemed in want of a companion.  Unless you would prefer solitude?”

Regaining himself, Gimli sat again.  “Nothing would be preferable to your company, my Lady.  I am honored by your presence.”

She smiled at him, beautiful and knowing.  “And the tongue of Gimli remains as sweet-spoken as ever.  But I repeat my earlier statement: You seem troubled, my champion.  May I offer you any assistance?”

Gimli blushed – he could not help it.  Both at her offer – for it was he who should be offering her his service, any deed he could do – and at the thought of telling her what troubled him.  To sit at the side of the marvelous woman who had first inspired him to open his heart, and to tell her just _how_ open it had become.  And – he, a dwarf – to confess to her his love for an elf!  Loving her was easy; how any being could look upon her and not fall in love the greater mystery – but perhaps she would not forgive him his love for another of her kindred, either because it turned his devotion away from solely her or because unlike with her he hoped for a chance that these feelings were returned –

Her gaze did not touch him as deeply as it had the first time; he supposed it was because the ring she wore had lost its power.  But still he felt as though she could see every thought in his mind, and she smiled at him and his cheeks warmed.  “My Lady is too kind,” he managed to stammer, “but it is not a thing – I mean – I know not how to speak of it.”

She nodded, and hummed, and seemed to let it lie, until she turned another look on him from the corner of her eye and spoke once more.  “I could not help but note that Legolas was not at your side, before I approached.”  Gimli’s breath caught and he knew she marked it; her smile deepened.  “I hope all is well between you, as it was when you departed Lothlorien.  It pleased me to see such fellowship grow between you, and I hope nothing has disturbed it.”

“No,” Gimli managed.  “Or, not – I mean” –

She did not seem to be looking at him, but he felt somehow that her gaze was still fixed on him, even as her eyes wandered across the room.  “It seems so recently you were both in my forest,” she went on, “so weary already from the quest that you had barely begun, and have now completed with such honor.”  Gimli wondered whether she meant the words, or was merely flattering him, but either way he could not but blush.  “I could not have foreseen then what friendship would grow between you, though I may perhaps have seen hints in your minds” –

“In our minds?” Gimli blurted, before he could stop himself.  Both of theirs?

The Lady turned her gaze on him once more.  “I could tell you what was in his, if you wished, son of Glóin.  If that would aid you, or ease your troubled thoughts.”

Her eyes pierced him, and he knew that she _knew_ – that she could see all of his hopes, all of his fears, all of his desire and all of his carefully-constructed reasons not to pursue it.  And for a moment he was tempted – to _know_ what Legolas was thinking, not to have to coax it out of him, not to have to put himself forward with the fear of rejection, to know whether he should or not.  To know _now_ , rather than waiting it out, whether he had hope for his love, or whether he was doomed to a life of loneliness.

He was tempted – but only for a moment.

They spoke of _Legolas_ , after all.  Legolas who trusted him, Legolas who cared for him, even if he knew not to what extent.  And Legolas who, Gimli had learned, would almost always open up, if given the right incentive to do so.  Legolas who was honest, and earnest, and who did not deserve to have Gimli knowing his most private thoughts if he was not ready to share them.

“I thank you, Lady,” he said, ironing the tremble out of his voice as best he could, “but Legolas’s thoughts are his own, to share with me as he will, and nothing could convince me to get them from another” – he gave her a wry look – “regardless of the temptation.”

The Lady laughed.  Loud, bright, and clear – so beautiful that dozens of guests looked over, amazed and transfixed.

Then she turned the full force of her brilliant smile onto Gimli, and he felt he might never again be able to move in the focus of her gaze.  “Ah, my champion,” she said, “you prove again and again the truth of your heart and your worth, whatever the test.”  She took up one of Gimli’s hands in both of hers and pressed it, and he could do nothing but stare.  “You have made the right choice.  And in return for the steadfastness of your heart, and your friendship, I tell you that you need not fear.”

Gimli managed a shaky breath, and he dared to speak.  He knew that she had seen it, after all, knew that she knew the deepest desire of his heart.  “How may I not, Lady?” he asked.  “For I know I can never be worth his – his affections.”  He blushed as he said the words out loud, and his voice sank to a whisper.

“You undervalue yourself, as ever, Lockbearer,” said the Lady.  “But – and I say this out of no thought I have seen, but merely out of my knowledge of his character – I imagine that Legolas would think the exact same thing of himself.”

“But he” – Gimli’s cheeks burned hotter than ever, but he made himself say it.  “But he is worth – everything.”  Ah, and if his father had heard him speak so!

“Even as you are,” said the Lady, and smiled upon him, and rose.  “I go, I think, to take in the evening air.  But I ask thee, my champion, to remember thy own worth.”  She bent down and took his head between her hands and kissed his brow – just as Legolas had done, Gimli could not help thinking, weeks ago – before turning and gliding away, leaving Gimli stunned behind her.

* * *

Legolas did not like such events.

He did not mind them so much when they were at his home – there, he had had centuries to learn the routines and the other elves, to recognize his own limits and to indicate when he had gone beyond them.  And there, people knew him enough to excuse him when he excused himself.  But here, he knew none, and they were all – or most of them – men, who lacked the _understanding_ that most elves seemed to share, that allowed Legolas to, if he could not truly relax, at least feel a bit better about his own limitations.

But here –

He kept to the walls.  It did not work so well as among trees, of course, but growing up in Mirkwood had taught him enough stealth that he was able to slip under most radars.  The few who might have noticed were preoccupied: Mithrandir with Elrond, Aragorn with his new wife, and Gimli – well, Gimli could not keep his eyes off of the Lady Galadriel.

Legolas wondered if the joyous nature of the event was making his friend wistful.  He knew, after all, that Gimli had no hope for returned affections from the Lady, but – he knew not if Gimli’s love for Galadriel was the kind that any elf might direct at her: admiration and affection and friendship, or if it was – well – if it was the kind of love that Legolas felt for Gimli.

And he did not know if it would make a difference if it did.  He never felt uncertain of his friend’s affections when they were together; Gimli was the most steadying presence he had ever encountered, but without Gimli by his side he felt lost and insecure, doubting even things he had come to hold as certain – whether or not he knew how to speak of them –

A heavy hand fell on his shoulder, startling him.  “Legolas!” said Aragorn, with the same beaming smile that had been on his face all day, his voice just a little too loud.  With a start Legolas realized that his friend was drunk – whether on wine or happiness, who could tell?

“Aragorn,” he said, and then, correcting himself, “Elessar.”

Aragorn made a face.  “Ah, you need not name me by my titles, my friend!” he said.  “I want you to meet my wife!” He swung an arm out and seemed to scoop Arwen out of the air beside him, pulling her into the corner with them.  “Arwen Undomiel, Queen of Gondor!”

Legolas laughed at him, though he avoided Arwen’s eyes.  Understanding elves may have, but not the two of them – not when Legolas had left his own home forest so little, and the safety of the Evenstar had never been risked enough to bring her to Mirkwood.  How could he ever hope to speak to her?  “The Evenstar and I are acquainted, Aragorn,” he said, bowing slightly in Arwen’s direction.  “We met before you were born.”  _Met_ admittedly being a bit of an overstatement.

“Ah, yes,” said Aragorn, now whispering conspiratorially, “but you have not met her as my wife.”  He beamed again.  “My wife, Legolas!”  He reached out to cup Arwen’s face between his hands.  “My wife,” he said again.

She laughed at him.  “I think he knows, my husband,” she said, and Legolas watched with amusement as Aragorn lit up even more.  “Go now and greet your other friends.”  She gave him a gentle shove.  “I would speak with Legolas for a moment.”

“Your wish is my command, my lady,” said Aragorn, bowing gallantly over her hand even as Legolas started and tried to shrink, as though he could somehow disappear.

But then Aragorn was gone and there was no escaping Arwen’s gentle gaze.  “My – my lady?” he ventured, feeling trapped.

“Arwen, please, Legolas,” she said.  “I first met you when you were a child, and now you are one of my husband’s dearest friends.  I think we need not stand on ceremony.”

“I” – But Legolas knew not what he would have said, and he fell silent instead.

Arwen smiled at him.  “Perhaps you would honor me with a dance?” she said.  “It has been long indeed since I have taken part in the revels of the woodland elves; I would gladly see if my skills have diminished.”

There was no declining – and the musicians had just struck up a fast song that tugged at Legolas’s feet, so he nodded and bowed and let her lead him onto the dance floor.

It was clear as soon as they began that Arwen hailed from Rivendell and had spent much of her life there; her dancing was skilled, but more practiced and stately than Legolas’s own, less fluid. Still, her mother was of Lothlorien, and some of the ways of the Silvan folk must have trickled down to her, for she kept up with him admirably, laughing when he surprised her with a backwards twirl and spun himself out of her grasp, copying his improvised footwork with easy grace, only a step slower than he was.  As the song sped up, winding to an even faster finish, Legolas snatched her hand again and reeled her back into his arms; she came laughing and gasping, and let him dip her nearly to the floor as the song finished.

Dancing was an easy way to warm to someone; Legolas smiled at her with more ease when they had finished.  “Thank you for the pleasure, my lady,” he said.  “I would venture to say your skills have hardly diminished.”

“Arwen,” she corrected him again with a mock frown, setting her hand on his arm and leading him away from the dance floor.  “And you flatter me, Legolas.  But I thank you – it pleases me to know that even as this new life begins, I may count on an elven companion, to remind me of my youth even in this city of men.”

Legolas’s smile fell away, then.  Could she count on an elven companion?  He did not know – and the way she said “even in this city of men” – it all reminded him of the conflicting calls he felt, the decision he had yet to make, that he did not know how to make –

She seemed to see his unease.  “Come,” she said, keeping her hand on his arm.  “Let us walk awhile outside, yes?  You seem troubled, and I would be glad of the evening air.”

He followed her, numbly – suddenly he had so many questions, but he did not know if he dared to ask them –

Outside, strolling the paths in the palace gardens, Arwen turned to him once more.  “Come now,” she said, “do not close up on me once more!  I will not judge your words, Legolas, and it seems to me that you have something to say.”

He hesitated, but if he were to ask this question – who better to ask?  “I simply wondered, my lady – Arwen – if you – how you knew. That your love for Aragorn was – was strong enough to compel you to give up” – He did not know how to phrase it.

Her eyes were too sympathetic; he had to look down.  “I knew,” she said simply.  “There is no better way to say it.  And, forgive me, Legolas, for I do not intend to pry, but I think that if you are asking me this question, then you know as well.”

He swallowed.  “You may be right,” he said, “but there are – there are complications.”

“Will you tell me of whom you speak?”  He was thankful for the way she asked it, as though she only wanted the answer to help him, rather than to satisfy her own curiosity.  “I have not been present long enough to understand your bonds with your companions, and it may help me to know.”

“I” – Legolas realized that he had never said it aloud before this moment, and he felt his face growing warm, but he pushed forward.  “Gimli.  The dwarf.”

Arwen let out a long, slow breath.  “Ah,” she said.

Legolas bristled.  “What do you mean?” he asked.  He did not know how to read her tone, and she had said nothing else – he did not wish to assume it of her, but he knew that any elf would likely be surprised to hear the news.  And he worried, suddenly, that she would withdraw her kindness, shame him for the vulnerable parts of his heart that he could not bring himself to expose –

“Peace, Legolas,” she said.  “I mean only that I understand why you fear moving forward.  This will not be an easy path for either of you, not least because of our own people.”

“Yes,” he said, but as he did so he knew that he meant more than just his father, Gimli’s father, both of their peoples combined, and again the waves crashed in his mind, in his heart, and he could not help asking, “And it was enough for you to – to give up Valinor?”

Arwen caught her breath and looked at him, and he knew that she saw it, saw the sea reflected in his eyes, where it was never supposed to be.

“Oh,” she said, and her hands fell to her sides.  “Oh, Legolas, I am sorry.”

“I did not want this,” he blurted, hating himself for the tone of his voice and reaching instinctively for his own hands, wringing his fingers in the comfort of having something to hold on to.  “I did not want it, but it has come upon me, and I – and I” –

“Peace, my friend,” she said gently.  “You need not make this decision yet.  Aman will always be there for you, now or in a hundred years or more.  But you know that if you sail, you cannot come back.”

“I know,” he murmured.

“Your decision need not be irreversible, if you delay deciding,” she continued.  “And, Legolas, I say this not to burden you, or to sway you in one way or another, but – if the decision you face is anything like mine, then I think the fact that you have asked me means that it is made already.”

“But what if I – what if he” – He faltered.  _What if he does not feel the same_ – for why would he?  When he was with Gimli, he was able to forget it, but when he was not, he always found himself wondering: wondering why Gimli had tolerated him for so long, and for how much longer his patience would endure.  Why one so proud and strong and capable would ever be willing to attach himself to Legolas – and yet when they were together, he forgot all this, and he merely felt safe, and trusted, and – and _loved_ –

He opened and closed his mouth, words absent, suddenly reluctant to burden the Evenstar any further with his troubles.  He had taken so much of her time already – “My lady,” he said, “Arwen, I – I thank you for your kindness, and I will think on your words.”

“I am glad to hear it,” she said.  “I fear I must now excuse myself – my husband will be wondering where I am.  But thank you once more for the dance, Legolas, and for opening your heart to me.  And I am sure we will speak often in the coming days – and years.”

And the way she smiled at him made him wonder how far into his heart she was able to see.


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now that their wait in Gondor is over, and the Fellowship on their way home, Legolas repays a promise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas if you celebrate it, Happy Holidays if you celebrate something else, and if you don't celebrate everything at all, have this chapter as a present anyway.

“Through here.”

Legolas followed where Gimli led, ducking to maneuver under an archway entry whose ceiling was a bit too low for his head.  For a moment he worried that the entirety of the caves would be likewise – that Gimli’s passion had been such that he had forgotten the limitations of height – but just as quickly he relaxed.  The Rohirrim had used these caves for shelter, after all, and Legolas was certainly not taller than all of them.

Sure enough, once they were under the archway, the cavern expanded – Legolas could tell it was vast from the echoes of their footsteps.  He could see little, but he cocked his head to hear better and sang one note, listening to the echoes bounce off the walls and return.

Gimli laughed beside him.  “Even in the caves that you protested so much to enter you sing,” he said.  “May I hope that it is not out of fear?”

“I have not protested since the beginning,” countered Legolas.  “And no – I merely sought to test the size of this place.  I have not your stone sense, or your vision in the dark, but I know sound, particularly music.”

“It will grow lighter further on,” Gimli promised, “and I have brought torches for us.  But I would have you see it all at once, if you are willing.”  His voice grew merry, a laugh trapped in his throat.  “What say you, Master Elf?  Fair is fair, is it not – will you consent to be blindfolded through the entrance?”

Legolas hesitated.  He did not mind, of course, and he did trust Gimli – only he was not so certain he trusted the cave.  “In keeping with past wrongs, should I not then ask that you be blindfolded as well?”

“But then who would keep you from hitting your head on archways?”

“That is why I hesitate,” Legolas admitted.  “I trust you, Gimli, but I know not if” –

“If it makes you uncomfortable, I will not ask it of you,” said Gimli.  “But I promise I will not lead you astray.  Will you allow me this?”

Legolas could still see little, but he could hear Gimli’s voice grow graver, almost out of place; could feel the increased heat as Gimli drew closer and turned to face him.  His breath caught, and there was nothing to do but agree.

“Yes,” he breathed.  “I surrender myself to your whims, Master Dwarf – where you go, I will go.”

He could not see Gimli’s smile, but he could practically feel it between them.  Gentle hands tugged his head down – and this close, Legolas could see the shine of Gimli’s eyes, inches away from his own; feel the heat of Gimli’s breath on his face – his own breath caught even as Gimli carefully laid a strip of cloth over his eyes and tied it in back.  There was a sudden vulnerability, of being here, with his face so close to Gimli’s, those nimble fingers against his head – but Gimli would never do anything, not now, not while Legolas could not see, and that thought was as much a relief as it was a disappointment.

“Good,” Gimli’s voice said finally, and Legolas shivered at the low huskiness of it.  “Now take my arm, and I will lead you.”

There was no noise for long moments but their footsteps: Gimli’s heavy and determined, Legolas’s light and always just a step slower, as he followed where Gimli guided him.  He wondered if Gimli felt the same warm weight in the air around them, as though the space between them was embers that the slightest breath might catch to flames.  But Legolas did not want to catch it yet.  He had not yet the words to say what he needed to say; the time was not yet right.  For all that he had realized he would have to unlearn his own sense of time, for all that he was beginning to resign himself to the changes that he would have to make, there were some thoughts that were not changed so easily: the need to be absolutely certain, before he spoke words that were not quite ready.  He was still an elf, and elves did not need to rush.

Gimli’s voice spoke up again, suddenly.  “Duck here,” he said, and a hand was once again at the back of Legolas’s head, easing it down.  A few more shuffling steps, the dull light of the torch – and Gimli pulled the blindfold from Legolas’s head and let him look around in wonder.

It was not that he had not been expecting beauty, for he knew enough of Gimli’s true heart and honest words to trust them.  It was more that he had not truly let the expectation of beauty enter his heart, and even if he had, it would not have prepared him for such a sight.

 _The Glittering Caves_ , Gandalf had called them, and he was right – the light of the torch bounced off of razor edges of gems that lined the cave in towering twisted pillars, that looked like they would draw blood at the touch.  The walls themselves were smooth and sheened with something white and iridescent, like the inside of an oyster’s shell –

No.  Not an oyster’s shell.  Legolas froze for a moment as salty waves crashed down on him; he was not safe from it even here, even deep under the earth; he swore he could still smell the salt in the air –

“Legolas?” Gimli’s voice cut through the sea mist, and he laid a hand on Legolas’s arm.

Legolas breathed out, grounded himself in the warmth of Gimli’s hand and the dark-bright sparkling of the caves.  “Ah,” he said, finding his voice again.  “I see, indeed, Gimli.  These caverns truly are a wonder, hidden deep beneath the earth.”

“And wonders still there are to see,” said Gimli.

He kept his hand on Legolas’s arm – possibly sensing that he needed the grounding touch – as he led him on through chambers and chambers of marvels: glittering gems, and shimmering walls, and pools that reflected all the splendor hundredfold.  And while it missed the lush green of the forests Legolas called home, the shading and dappling of always-different leaves and the murmurings and rustlings of creatures in the branches, it was of a different kind of beauty, a different kind of make, and Legolas thought that there was life here, that the stone spoke whispers in a language he did not know – but one that he could learn, if given the time.

They came at last to the furthest place they could explore, where they would have to turn around to return to the company: a wide cavern with a still pool in the center, whose floor seemed paved with bright gems and walls were cut in flat planes, as though they stood in the midst of a hollowed-out gem itself.  Legolas could not hold back his curiosity here, and he sang: the same mid-range, testing note as before.

It echoed and split, came back and bounced off the walls and the pools more and more, and harmonized with itself.  Enraptured, Legolas took another breath and began to sing in earnest.

He kept the melody simple, and added no words, but let the walls of the cave do their own work: the echoes broke apart and came back, only to mingle with the next notes.  It was like having a chorus – and here, he thought, though the stones held no elvish echoes, he had created the first ones that they would hear.

Strangely pleased at the thought, he turned to Gimli again and was gratified to find a look of wonder in his face.  Legolas felt his heart swell within him.

“Thank you,” Gimli said at last hoarsely.  He looked up at Legolas, his face soft in a way Legolas rarely saw it, and the urge to speak fluttered again at his tongue, but he would not, not yet.  “If Éomer grants my wish, it pleases me to think that I may hear the voices of elves as well as dwarves in this place, for truly it grants it a new beauty.”

“Your wish?” asked Legolas, taken off guard.

“Ah.”  Gimli cleared his throat.  “Well.  I have thought” – He hesitated, then lowered his voice as though telling a secret, though there was no one around to hear them.  “I had thought to ask Éomer if he might allow me to bring others of my folk here.  I told you it was a desire of mine, and now it seems we have the time to carry out wishes” –

He trailed off, and Legolas looked at him: solid and strong against the backdrop of glimmering gems and smooth cave walls.  His hair was fire again in the light of the torch, and it brought to mind their first encounter, so long ago.  He was like a portrait, with light fracturing off the facets of the gems and outlining him in stars, grander than any lord Legolas had ever seen, and his breath caught in his throat; he could not speak.

But Gimli smiled at him then and took his hand, and the block in Legolas’s throat softened – for this was Gimli, and he was safe.  “You say nothing, Master Elf,” he noted.  “Struck dumb at last?”

“Speechless in the best of ways,” Legolas managed, and he squeezed Gimli’s hand.  “Truly, you are fit to be the lord of these caves, Gimli.  Their splendor is – you would not appreciate forest comparisons, so I will say that it is a fit setting for the gem that you are.”

Gimli laughed and looked down, his cheeks touched with a blush – and part of Legolas reveled in it, that he could elicit such a reaction from this ever-confident creature.  “Ah, you flatter me, Master Elf,” he said, “to compare me in worth to this realm of beauty.”

“In truth it is the caves I flatter,” dared Legolas, “for as glorious as they are, your worth will ever be higher in” – Now he felt himself flushing as well.  “In my heart.”

There was a long pause, and then they both looked away at the same time, with the same bashful laugh.  But their hands remained joined, and Legolas marveled once again: that he could be here, with such trust, in someone so magnificent.  He knew – and it was not a new knowledge, but it settled into him with renewed certainty – that he never wished to let go.

Knew that his decision was made.

“Well,” said Gimli finally, “such an admission was more than I ever hoped to gain from an elf underground.”  He looked back up at Legolas at last, smiling again.  “I am pleased that you have found worth in these caves that you once thought to pay to be free of.”

Legolas wished to duck his head, but did not.  “Worth indeed,” he said softly.  “Truly, you have shown me beauty in a place I never thought to find it.”  In a cave, in a dwarf, in a friend with whom silence and speech were equally expressive, and he was suddenly struck by the anxious urge to return it.  “I only hope I can give you such a gift, when the time comes.”

“You already have,” said Gimli gently.  “You already do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The idea of Legolas singing in the caves was stolen from a really long story called "Sons of Fellowship" by Conquistadora that I found on storiesofarda.


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s Gimli’s turn to repay a promise – and under the boughs of Fangorn, some truths are finally confessed.

It was Legolas who finally called them to a stop their first night in Fangorn: laughing, he turned to Gimli.  “I am surprised at you, my friend; I could wander tirelessly for hours more among these trees, hearing their songs and stories, but you nod on your feet and yet have not asked for a rest!  Can it be that you have found beauty here, among these trees to which you claim such an aversion?”

Gimli huffed, and knew he flushed, though he tried not to show it.  In truth the beauty he found was not in the trees but in Legolas: in the way he stood out and blended in at the same time, dark skin and hair fading into the shadows of trees and the dappling of the leaves, while also seeming to gleam in sun- and moonlight alike; in his voice, at times the low breathy sound of a wooden flute when he tried to sing quietly enough not to disturb Gimli, and brighter, clearer notes when he forgot.  Not in Minas Tirith, not even in Lothlorien had he seen his friend so at peace, and the sight kept him silent and awed, Legolas’s happiness spilling over into him as well.

“I simply did not wish to disturb you,” he said finally.  “For you were so patient with me in the Glittering Caves, and I did not wish to stand in the way of your joy here.”

“Ah, you must tell me these things!” cried Legolas, gentle teasing replaced by distress.  “I would not have my whims interfere with your comfort.  See, you are nearly asleep on your feet.  We will make camp now.  Have you energy to make a fire?”

Gimli tried to quiet his fussing, but it warmed him inside to hear Legolas so gentle and solicitous.  In no time they had cleared a campsite, Gimli gathering fallen wood to build a small fire; Legolas pulling bread and cheese from their pack and then darting into the woods with the promise to return soon with berries to supplement their dinner.

The fire was crackling merrily when he returned, Gimli holding his hands close for warmth.  The forest had grown chill at night, and Legolas would likely have never noticed it, but Gimli was glad for the light and the warmth.

Legolas emerged from the trees with leaves tangled in his hair, smudges of shadow against the darker tresses, and his cupped hands piled high with blackberries. He smiled down at Gimli, taller than ever with the dwarf seated on the ground, and his radiance rendered Gimli speechless for a moment. “Blackberries!” he said.  “Thickets upon thickets grow not far from here, wild and dark and bursting with berries as large and full as gemstones.  The bushes were defensive at first, but when I told them of the doughty yet patient dwarf who had spent so long wandering with me today, braving discomfort out of kindness for my delight, they were glad enough to yield up their prize.  Will you have one now, my friend?”

Gimli swallowed hard and cleared his throat.  “Gladly,” he managed.  He took the top berry from Legolas’s cupped hands and put it into his mouth, crushing it with his tongue.  In a way he was glad now to have a reason not to speak: Legolas’s consideration of him, and his words – so casual, but laden with such high regard – how could he ever live up to such praise?  He was suddenly warmer than the fire truly warranted.

“Tell me true,” Legolas said later, when they had finished their dinner and were helping themselves languidly to the blackberries.  “Do you find naught of beauty in this wood?  Is your heart untouched by the myriad shades of the trees, by the patterns of their roots on the ground and their branches in the sky?  Do you wander in these woods only out of patience with me?  For I would not bring you discomfort” –

“You do not,” interrupted Gimli before Legolas could continue, putting his hand over the elf’s as he saw it begin its characteristic twitching.  “I am not at home in these woods, that is true, but you do not force me into discomfort.  I travel them with you because I made a promise, and also because” – He stopped, his cheeks heating, but forced himself to continue, pressing down on Legolas’s hand as his fingers tensed.  “Because I would prolong our travels together as much as I might.”

Legolas turned his face toward Gimli then, and smiled, his eyes shining in the dim firelight.  He said nothing, but after a moment his hand turned under Gimli’s and laced their fingers together.

They sat in silence for a few long moments more, and then Gimli yawned.  Legolas’s hand freed itself from his and came to rest on his shoulder instead.  “You are tired,” he said softly.  “Do not stay awake on my account – I will not sleep this night, for there is so much to see and hear, and I would take in as much as I can before we leave this forest behind.”

He rose and unearthed Gimli’s bedroll from their things, sweeping a clear spot and laying it out before Gimli could even rise.  In turn, he looked at Legolas, wondering how to say all the things that rose up and choked in his throat, but could not manage it.

Legolas patted his hand.  “Sleep, my friend,” he urged.  “I will not wander far.”

And Gimli might have protested being coddled, but somehow he could not bring himself to turn away Legolas’s care.  So instead he stretched, sighed, and slipped into his bedroll as Legolas stood and wandered towards the trees.

The last thing he saw before closing his eyes was his friend with his forehead pressed to the trunk of a tree, his face rapt as though listening intently to something Gimli could not hear, and then he let himself slip away into sleep.

He woke to singing, Legolas’s voice filtering through his dreams and guiding him to wakefulness.  He lay with his eyes closed for a moment, letting the sounds and sensations remind him of his surroundings, and continued to listen.

Legolas’s voice was quieter than usual when Gimli was awake, but louder than it usually was at this time in the morning.  Gimli listened carefully – he was singing in his own language, in the Silvan dialect rather than Sindarin.  Gimli did not speak either tongue, but he had come to recognize the differences: the words sounded rougher, wilder, than the liquid smoothness of the language spoken by people such as Elrond and Galadriel.  Legolas had once explained that though he spoke Sindarin and Westron fluently, the former without even an accent as a result of his time among his father’s court, he had been raised and felt most comfortable around the Silvan folk.  That, though Sindarin lent itself best to songwriting, there were certain words – certain emotions – that he was best able to express in the tongue of the forest elves.

That in mind, Gimli listened for the melody.  It swooped between high and low, major and minor – switches that were too quick and jarring to work, and yet which somehow stitched pieces of a tune together into something simultaneously ecstatic and deeply, bitterly sad.

He did not open his eyes, but listened longer as Legolas continued singing, his voice growing louder as though with a passion that could not be held back.  Or perhaps –

He was drawing closer, Gimli realized.  Even with his eyes closed, he could hear and feel Legolas coming nearer to where he still lay listening, and the song rose up again, an octave higher than Gimli’s bass could have hoped to reach, but with such a combination of joy and sorrow that it sent a shooting pain right through Gimli’s heart –

The song broke off abruptly, and Gimli ached again to hear it stop.  But Legolas’s voice spoke then, quiet and concerned.  “Gimli?  Gimli, are you well?”

Gimli opened his eyes to Legolas’s worried face, and it was only then that he realized that he had been weeping.  He blinked, brushing a hand under his eyes.  “Good morning,” he said, choosing to ignore Legolas’s concern.  “How do you fare?”

“How do _I_ – Gimli, what ails you?  Why do you weep?”

Gimli sat up, and Legolas backed away to give him space but continued to hover.  “Fear not; I am well,” he assured Legolas.  “What were you singing?  I have heard few songs as beautiful in my life.”

“You flatter me.”  Legolas’s voice did not lose its worried edge, but he did smile a bit.  “I was singing to this tree, here.”  He pointed to the left, to the largest tree near their small cleared-out campsite.  “We spoke long this morning, and he told me of his life.  He is an Ent, Gimli, or – I suppose it would be better to say he _was_ an Ent, many, many years ago.  His heart has changed, since then: has grown both softer and sturdier, spread throughout his shape and dripped down into his roots.  He will not move from this ground, now” – The concern in Legolas’s voice had faded away, to be replaced with soft awe as he spoke, gesturing to the tree and all the space around them.  “He is awake, still, but he speaks more in the way of trees than of Ents, and he tells me that he has changed his way of finding wisdom.  Instead of traveling as the Ents do, he has grown still and quiet, and now he seeks understanding in the sights of all that pass him by, the tiniest changes that occur in this one small clearing.  He tells me infinite wisdom can be found even in the smallest of spaces, for nothing is ever quite the same.”  He smiled at Gimli.  “He has not seen an elf since before he rooted himself here, and not a dwarf in even longer.  I told him of us, and of you.”

Gimli had sat quiet and nodded as Legolas spoke, listening to the words as much as watching his face and eyes as he said them.  But his question had not been answered.  “And what did you sing of, then?  I heard notes of sorrow deeper than I could understand, but also joy so great that my heart yearned for something I did not know.”

Legolas’s face grew distant and melancholy.  “He is old,” he said meditatively, “older than almost any living thing that remains on this Middle-earth.  Galadriel is a child to him, and you and I mere seconds in his accounting of time.  He spoke to me of his years in terms that I was not able to understand, and I – I sang to him of things _he_ will never understand: the joys and sorrows of short life, of finite mortality.”

Gimli blinked.  “But you – are an elf.”

“I am.”  Legolas nodded.  “And yet I am young among my people, and I do not think I will grow to be so very much older.”

His eyes were peaceful yet sad, and a chill ran through Gimli.  “Legolas, Legolas, what are you saying?  Surely, if you may never reach his age, you have thousands and thousands of years yet left” –

Legolas shook his head slowly.  “I do not think so.”  But then he colored and shook his head, his mouth clamping shut.

Gimli reached for his hand.  “What makes you say this, my friend?  The war is over – surely you see no threat now to your life!  Is there something you know that I do not?”

Legolas squeezed his hand and smiled now, shakily, into his face.  “There is,” he said, “only I think I dare not speak of it.”

“I dare,” said Gimli stoutly.  “Tell me, Legolas, is it – the Sea?”

Legolas nodded, then shook his head.  “The Sea, yes,” he said, “and also no.  I know I will not last so many years yet on these shores – and yet, I do not think the long life of an elf is for me to bear any longer.  I have become too tied to mortals, Gimli, and I do not know if I can return to my accustomed timespan once they have left me.”

Gimli caught his breath.  Words so long unspoken hovered in the air between them: the most important words he could ever speak, and the ones he did not know how to say.  “Say not so, Legolas,” he urged him.  “Your life is not meant to end so soon – however dear you may hold your mortal friends” –

But then he could speak no more, for Legolas had lifted his free hand to Gimli’s face and stroked a lock of hair aside, and Gimli found his voice frozen in his throat.

Legolas said nothing for a time, but trailed his fingers down the side of Gimli’s face.  When they threaded through his beard, Gimli trembled but said nothing, even tilting his head deeper into the touch.  Touching was familiar to them by now, but such a caress was new: Gimli had never told Legolas exactly what it meant to touch a dwarf’s beard, but Legolas had clearly known enough and had never attempted to do so before.  That he was now –

“Legolas,” Gimli whispered, and that was all.

Legolas buried his hand deeper, stroking lightly at Gimli’s jaw through the mass of hair.  “There is something I would say to you, my friend,” he said softly.  “Something I have yearned to say since we fought together at Helm’s Deep, only I did not have the words.  I do not know if I have them now, but I do not think I can keep my silence any longer.”

Gimli swallowed hard.  “Speak then, Legolas,” he said, remembering as he did so another forest, a time that seemed so long ago.  “Speak, and I will listen.”

“I know you will.”  Legolas smiled at him.  “And for that reason I am not afraid.”

But he said nothing for a time, keeping his hands where they were: one wrapped tightly in Gimli’s, the other continuing to rake gently through Gimli’s beard, making him shiver.  Gimli let the silence stretch, trusting that Legolas would find his words, knowing that this moment was not for him to speak.

“I find I know not how to say this,” Legolas said, “except to tell you what you have come to mean to me.  You know” – He swallowed; Gimli was close enough to see his throat bob with the motion, but he kept his eyes locked on Legolas’s own: dark, ageless, and sparkling.  “You know that I am called.  That the gulls will cry my name and the sea tug at my soul until I answer.  I have tried to resist it, have looked for a home here, and I find that not the strongest foundations of Middle-earth nor the loveliest forest glades can hold me here for long – but thou.” Gimli trembled at the gaze, filled with sadness and joy that he could never live long enough to understand.  “Thou art more immovable than the proudest oak tree and yet warmer than the most solid stone, a lee where my sea-tossed heart begs to shelter.  The call to thee is stronger than the call of the sea; the thought of parting from thee makes me feel lost and adrift, and I would keep thee by my side, as an anchor to this land, my heart’s most beloved, for as long as thou – allowest.”

He paused before finishing, and Gimli wondered if he had almost used the word “live” instead.

He said nothing more, but no more was needed.  Gimli’s body had been growing warmer as he spoke, and finally, in a wave of relief and overwhelming joy, all he could do was laugh.

“And thou, Legolas,” he said, and now he reached up to take Legolas’s other hand from his beard and enclose it with his own, so that both of their hands were clasped, “art a gem buried in rough stone, a poem hiding behind silence.”  Very carefully, keeping their eyes locked, he lifted Legolas’s knuckles to his lips.  “And we dwarves do not relinquish such treasure so easily.”

A smile spread over Legolas’s face, so beautiful that Gimli’s breath caught in his throat. “You will stay, then?” he asked softly.  “You will stay by me?”

“Always,” Gimli promised, and beyond that, no words seemed needed.

He leaned forward instead, to meet Legolas’s mouth with his own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...it finally happened. I hope the 22-chapter wait has been adequately rewarded! Fun fact: I probably wrote this chapter in about the first 50% of my work on this story (I write very out of order). It was very important to me that the confession scene happen the way it did, with Legolas being the one to finally find the words to say what he needed to say.
> 
> Also, I have no idea why I have such a fondness for blackberry picking in Fangorn, but I do. I can't help it.


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Legolas and Gimli talk about their future - and Gimli learns firsthand why Legolas finds it so difficult to make himself vulnerable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: This chapter contains: kissing, talk about sex, talk about death, panic attacks.

Gimli’s kisses were unlike anything Legolas had ever experienced.  He had been kissed on the mouth before; it was not uncommon for close friends among the elves to express affection thus, but those kisses were short, swift: a quick affectionate gesture.

They were nothing like this long, slow joining: nothing like Gimli’s lips parting under his and melting their mouths together; the moments of soft separation for breath – and did it count as one kiss or multiple, when they never truly drew apart?  Gimli’s mouth was as strong and as gentle as the rest of him, and he guided Legolas just as carefully; one of his broad, warm hands came to cup the back of Legolas’s neck, tilting his head deeper into the kiss, and Legolas felt a small sound escape his throat to be muffled in Gimli’s mouth.

Gimli eased away, finally, taking Legolas’s face between his hands.  “Is that all right?” he whispered.

Legolas’s breath came short and fast, but not in the usual panicked way, where he felt he couldn’t get enough air into his chest.  Now it was more that he had forgotten how to breathe while Gimli’s mouth was on his.  He nodded, though, gulping in air until he felt he could speak.  “All right?”  His hands sought _something_ and came to settle on Gimli’s forearms, squeezing as though to balance himself.  “It was” – _Everything I never knew I wanted_.  He could not say it right, so he gave up on words in favor of another kiss.

When they parted this time, all space between them was gone; Legolas found himself tightly enclosed in Gimli’s arms, his chest sinking into the thick softness of Gimli’s beard.  “Is it all right for you?” he managed finally, winded in a way he had never been after battle.  “Is this what you want?”

“What I want?”  Gimli’s hand came back up to Legolas’s head, stroking through the hair at the back of his neck; Legolas tilted his head back under Gimli’s fingers.  “You foolish elf, my dear Legolas, my beloved” – The words caught Legolas in the chest and knocked the breath out of him once more – “you are what I have always wanted, though I did not have the sense to know it until recently.”  He kissed Legolas again, swiftly, and then again, and again, and pulled back to whisper in his ear.  “Shall I tell you what I want from you?”  His hands swept down Legolas’s sides, and Legolas trembled against him, unmade, his skin shivered loose of his bones, his skeleton unlaced and spread out in front of Gimli, for him to craft as he would.  “I want to hold you forever, to learn every inch of your body and your soul.  I want to spend the rest of my life listening to you sing.  I want to worship you for all my life, and for lifetimes beyond it.  I want to love you, Legolas.  Will you let me do that?”

Shaking, clinging to Gimli, throat choked with almost-tears, Legolas could only nod.  He extracted a hand from Gimli’s hair and moved his beard to the side so that he could press his cheek against Gimli’s shoulder, tucking kisses into the creases of his collarbone and along his neck.  The skin there was soft, hidden beneath the beard that shielded it from sun and wound alike, a secret that had been waiting for Legolas to find it.

“I love you,” he whispered against Gimli’s throat.  “I love you, I love you,” and Gimli’s hands stroked his shoulders and sides, and his lips pressed again and again into Legolas’s hair, and they did not move from that spot for some time.

When he found his tongue again, Legolas sat up, disentangling himself from Gimli.  Gimli made a small sound of protest which was almost enough to strip Legolas entirely of his willpower, but he forced himself to be content once more with holding Gimli’s hands, for this was important.  “What do you know of the ways of elves?” he asked.

“Aside from what you have told me, almost nothing,” Gimli admitted, looking up at Legolas with a sheepish smile.

Legolas nodded, having expected as much.  “Even as I know little of dwarves.”  They were closer enough with their secrets that even after eighty years of diplomacy with Erebor, Laerwen had confessed that she knew almost nothing of them.  “Then we must discuss what such a bond may mean to us, according to our own customs.  For I would not misstep, not with something so important.”  He was all too aware of his own ability to destroy beautiful things with the wrong words, the wrong actions.  He could not risk this being more of the same.

Gimli nodded, though he looked reluctant, and sat back.  “As you have suggested it, then, you may go first.”

Legolas hesitated.  “I” – He did not quite know how to ask this, but found he had to try.  “I know not the ways of dwarves in this, but I – have you – before” – The words choked in his throat; he waved his hands helplessly and looked at Gimli.

Gimli seemed to understand.  “Sexual pleasure is not unknown to me, no,” he said.  “Dwarves love once in our lives, but love is something beyond the pleasures of the flesh, and it is not uncommon for us to explore with one another.”  His hands tightened around Legolas’s, and only then did Legolas realize that he had begun to fidget.  “Tell me how it is with you – with elves.”

“We” – Legolas had to clear his throat before he could speak.  “We are similar, yet opposite in many ways.  Elves – our loves may be many, for the lines between friendship and love are less clearly drawn than among the other races.  But we wed only one in our lives, and we desire no other until that time comes.  For us, a wedding is – a bodily joining.  I have never desired another, and so I have no experience in the ways of physical love.”

Gimli stared at him for so long that Legolas began to shift uncomfortably.  He longed to draw his hands out of Gimli’s, to clutch at his own fingers or twist them in his clothing, but as he tried to jerk them free, Gimli seemed to regain his tongue.  “So I – I am the first?”

“The first and only,” said Legolas, though he worried suddenly that Gimli would find him displeasing.  Did he wish for someone who could match him?  “I am sorry; I know there is much I do not understand” –

He stopped in shock, for Gimli’s lips were suddenly covering his and muffling his words.  His instinct was to pull back, but then that same heat burned in his lips and cheeks, down his neck and arms, and he forgot his restless fingers and his gnawing stomach, and leaned forward into the kiss once more.

When Gimli pulled away, Legolas clutched at his shoulders just to stay upright, reeling.  Gimli’s cheeks were a deep red, and his eyes burned.  “Legolas,” he rasped, “I do not think you understand how much you honor me in saying this.  The only one you will ever desire – and while this is not new to me, I promise you that doing it with one I love is a newer and more glorious experience than any I have had.”

“Ah,” was all Legolas could say.  Other thoughts had deserted him.

“We will go as slowly as you wish,” Gimli said.  His hands had wandered into Legolas’s hair, and Legolas could feel his fingers against his scalp, stroking lines of shivering warmth up and down.  “I will be our guide, if you wish it, but you must set the pace in this.  I do not hesitate at the thought of binding myself to you, but I would do nothing before you are comfortable.”

Legolas did not know how to respond.  He opened his mouth, but knew not what he would have said, and closed it once more.

“We need do nothing more than this yet,” said Gimli, stroking a thumb along Legolas’s cheekbone and making his head tilt back in pleasure.  “We have time.”

“Time,” said Legolas, finding his tongue once more.  “We have some time, yes, but” – But not enough.  Now that the words were spoken, the brevity of their time had come crashing down upon him.  How could he justify wasting any more time when they had just over a century together, when Gimli’s life was already fleeing, when seconds had begun to matter even more than they already had?  For that matter, how could he have justified wasting any time since Helm’s Deep, when their – and particularly Gimli’s – mortality had been made so clear to him?  Or at Pelargir, when he had first heard the call of the sea, when he had realized that the length of his own years on Middle-earth – and possibly even his life – had latched itself unshakably onto Gimli’s, never again to be separated?  He had never thought he would feel the call of the sea – had never thought he would find love in a mortal – but now both of those things had happened, and time had ceased to be the endless running stream that it had ever been for him, and now he saw his own folly, in waiting so long to speak, and wondered how he could ever have taken any of their time for granted –

“Legolas,” said Gimli gently, and Legolas realized that his eyes were stinging with tears.  Gimli brushed his thumbs under his eyes, collecting them.  “I remember now what you told me you were singing.  Tell me what you meant about being too tied to mortals.”

“I” – He could not say this while looking Gimli in the eyes.  He cast his eyes down at his lap, where their knees touched.  Gimli’s fingers nudged at his chin, but he shook his head and Gimli withdrew, letting him find his words.  “I told you at Pelargir that elves can sep” – His mouth dried out completely and unexpectedly in the middle of the word and he almost choked on his own tongue; he had to take a moment to swallow and begin again.  “Can separate our spirits from our bodies.  If an elf has sustained wounds to the spirit or the body too extensive to heal, to let them remain connected, we possess the ability to part them.  Such extensive wounds can come from torture, or from – from _force_ ” – He dared not look up to see if Gimli had understood him – “or – or at times from” – no, it sounded like he was blaming Gimli, but he had already begun, and it would not be fair to take back the words – “from the death of a lover.”

He could not look up, but he felt Gimli tense opposite him and draw his hands away from his cheek.  “Legolas,” he said hoarsely.

“I know not if it will be thus with me!” Legolas rushed.  If Gimli felt blamed, or betrayed – he could not bear it.  Blunt claws clenched and unclenched in his stomach, raking at him from the inside.  “And I do not fault you for any part of it – I could not bear if you” – He knew no longer what he was saying, but where Gimli would ordinarily have jumped in to save him from himself, now he was still and ominously silent.  So Legolas could do nothing but continue, feeling his voice stretch thinner.  “Please, do not think I blame you for your mortality – I would not have told you, only I” –

He stopped to take a breath, and found that he could not start again.  His stomach still churned, and still, Gimli said nothing, and he felt his own heart pounding faster and faster until he nearly choked on the breath he drew into his throat –

“Legolas!” said Gimli finally, alarmed.  “Legolas, Legolas, peace!”

Legolas hugged his stomach, trying to hold himself together, and bent forward over his clasped arms.  His chest seemed to tighten around his lungs, forbidding air from entering, making him struggle harder for breath, and even as he did, there was still a part of his mind that was free to curse himself for a fool: to put on such a display, to work himself up so over words he had only feared would be said – or it would have been better if he had not said his own words in the first place –

“May I touch you?” came Gimli’s voice, as though from a great distance.  And though the motion tightened his throat still further, Legolas brought himself to nod.

Gimli’s hand came to rest very gently on his shoulder blade; another moved to his forehead, brushing his hair back out of his face.  “Can you look up?” Gimli asked him.

Legolas shook his head, already dizzy from lack of air, breaths shallow and tearing at his throat, never quite making it into his chest.  And for all that it was not helping draw air into his lungs, the only thing keeping him in one piece now was his tight clasp on his own body, the hunched posture making him as small as possible.  He could not move.

Gimli was breathing deeply beside him: exaggerated inhales and exhales that did not really help Legolas slow his own, but _Gimli was beside him_ ; he had not left, and his voice was worried, but not disgusted, and it would be all right – it would be all right – Legolas tried to assure himself, and if his reassurances were not as effective as he might have hoped, at least his breath gradually began to slow.

“Look up now,” Gimli said softly, and Legolas kept his arms around his middle but let Gimli urge his chin gently up until his eyes reached the sky, and the interlacing branches of the trees.  “Look out at your forest, Legolas.  Remember where we are.”

Fangorn.  Yes.  Legolas closed his eyes and listened, opening himself once more to the rustling of the branches, the gentle motion of the wind, the skipping of leaves, the murmuring of insects and birds, and the quiet thrumming beneath it all: the strength and life of the trees.  He felt them reaching out to him, offering comfort that he had not noticed: they had seen his troubles, and though they did not understand them, reached out to soothe them.  And with an understanding that went beyond emotion, Legolas let them.

He opened his eyes, took in a shaky breath, and looked at Gimli once more.

Gimli’s face was drawn and his eyes narrow in concern, but his hands were still gentle on Legolas’s shoulder and cheek.  “Back now?” he asked.

Legolas nodded, and felt himself flushing with shame.  “Gimli, I” –

Gimli placed a finger over his lips, and Legolas fell silent.  “No need,” he said.  “Are you well now?”

“As well as can be,” Legolas said, his own voice fainter than he would have liked.  “I did not mean” –

“Shh.”  Gimli leaned forward to press his lips to Legolas’s forehead.  “You have done nothing wrong, Legolas.  Only I must ask, if you can tell me: why such a reaction?  I thought you felt no more fear of me?”

Legolas thought they might well have been able to cook their food off his face; he cast his eyes down once more.  “I know not,” he whispered.  “Only, I feared you thought I blamed you for your mortality.  That I had misspoken terribly enough to – to drive you away.”

“Oh, my love.”  Gimli moved a hand back up to stroke Legolas’s hair once more, and the words and the touch together relaxed Legolas’s belly enough that he finally felt he could let go of it.  His hands settled loosely in his lap instead, and he dared to look up.  “You could never drive me away.  I blamed myself, to be sure, but not because of your words.  I simply did not know how much you had given me in – in giving me yourself.”  Gimli’s gaze had turned pleading, dark eyes covered in a shining glaze.  “Your life, Legolas?  I am not worth that” –

“My life is worth more because you are in it,” Legolas brought himself to say.  “If you will leave me – I cannot keep you by my side if you do not wish it, but let it be for your sake, not mine.  I may decide if my life is worth yours, and I have decided.  Besides that, my death is not a foregone conclusion.  I cannot know now how it will be in many years – for many years we will surely still have.”  Suddenly he was the one promising them time, reversing his own worries of before, and in the face of Gimli’s distress it was easy where it had not been before. “Yes?”

“Yes,” Gimli reassured him.  “Yes, Legolas, my friend, my dearest love.  Yes.”

He pulled Legolas into his arms once more, and Legolas rested his head on Gimli’s shoulder, breathing in the smoke-and-metal scent of him, and let Gimli’s touch and comfort soothe his racing heart.

* * *

Gimli held Legolas for long moments, letting him press his face into Gimli’s neck, feeling mercifully-slower (if still unsteady) breaths stir the hair of his beard.  One of his hands had curled up to rest against Legolas’s head, brushing fingers through his hair; the other rubbed the trembling back in long, slow strokes.

Gimli felt a bit shaky himself.  What had just happened – whatever that had been, it had happened so fast: Legolas had been speaking, had dropped on Gimli the piece of information that their love might lead to his _death_ , and before Gimli could even attempt to wrap his mind around that it was as though some other power took over Legolas’s body.  And before Gimli’s eyes he had simply fallen apart: breathing in ragged gasps, unable to speak, hardly responding to Gimli’s efforts to calm him, as though he were being shaken to pieces.

This was something different from twitching fingers and closed-off speech.  This was something Gimli had never seen before.

It was not enough to frighten him away.  Now that he knew his own heart, nothing would be enough for that (well, nothing but the thought of Legolas’s death, reminded a nagging voice, but having seen the results of that conversation, it was not something he wanted to bring up again in a hurry). But it was something he needed to understand, especially in light of the conversation that had preceded it.

So he waited for long moments more, still stroking Legolas’s sun-warmed hair and holding him carefully, waiting until the trembling eased, and then he ventured to say, “Legolas?”

Legolas stiffened against him, and Gimli forced his body not to respond in kind, to stay relaxed and gentle, keeping the lightest pressure behind his caresses.  “Hush,” he said, more to quiet Legolas’s fears than his nonexistent noise, “shh – you need not fear me, Legolas; I would not hurt you, and I will not leave you, no matter what you say, but – Legolas – I need to understand.”

“Yes,” sighed Legolas, voice muffled in Gimli’s beard, but he made no move to extract himself, so Gimli did not shift.  “I suppose you do.”

“Can you tell me, then?” asked Gimli.  “What happened earlier?  Legolas,” and this time he held Legolas tighter when he would have pulled away, “I only wish to help you.”

Legolas’s back expanded under his hand as he took a deep breath; this time when he drew back, Gimli let him go, but kept contact, his hands sliding down Legolas’s shoulders to take his hands once more.  “I know not what to say,” said Legolas finally.  “It simply – happens, sometimes.  When I am – particularly – agitated.”  His body jerked a little at that last word, just a quick tensing and releasing, and Gimli understood.  He wished he were not asking Legolas to speak this aloud, but he could not understand it alone.

“But why now?” he asked.  Surely he had not done something to frighten Legolas away?  “I thought that you were beyond such reactions to me?”

“I think” – Legolas broke off and breathed deeply; alarmed, Gimli clutched his hands tighter, watching his face for a sign of a repeat of before, but after a moment Legolas began again.  “It is merely that I have not laid my heart so bare before, I think.  And, in offering it to you, I feared that even the slightest misstep would drive you away.  I cannot lose you, Gimli.  I told you before, you are an anchor to every part of me; you give me voice that I never knew I had, and the fear of losing you is powerful enough to make me – naked, and vulnerable in a way that few other fears ever have.”

“You will not lose me,” Gimli promised.  “At least, not before it is my time to go.  But should we not talk of that, Legolas?  For I will die, one day.”  And that had never before seemed something to rue – oh, he did not want to die _yet_ , to be sure, but the knowledge of his own mortality had long since ceased to truly trouble him – but now.  “I would not leave you if I could help it; if death were a foe to be fought I would challenge it myself, on your behalf, but I cannot.  But I cannot sentence you to death with my own.”

“It may not be so,” said Legolas, though his voice wavered.  “I told you that I know not how long I have to live – but that is only a possibility; I think of it to prepare myself, but it may not be so.  I have told you that you help me resist the call of the sea.  It may be that I can stay here until – until your death” – His voice cracked, and he swallowed thickly – “and then sail over the sea, to find healing in Valinor.  I know not if I would be healed there, for you will not be there, either, but – but know that you are not sentencing me to certain death, my love.”

“Please sail,” Gimli whispered, words he had not thought he would say, even if their meaning was not what he had imagined.  He heard his own voice shaking, heard it as though it belonged to another.  “Please do not give up your life for love of me.”

“I can make no promises now,” said Legolas.  “But now is not the time to make any of these promises, for I would not live your whole life with the shadow of death hanging over us!  And I am sorry for my reaction before; I do not” –

Gimli silenced him with a kiss: tentative, ready to pull back, but Legolas did not resist, letting Gimli deepen the kiss.  And this was kissing the way Gimli had never experienced it.  Legolas’s mouth was clumsy but soft, so soft, under his own, and he made tiny sounds in the back of his throat: little noises of surprise and pleasure as Gimli nudged his lips apart, tilted his head to change the angle, slid his hands up Legolas’s arms and under his hair.  And ah, he would never tire of touching that hair: smooth as melted gold but thicker than he expected it to be, so that his fingers almost got lost in it; the color of polished obsidian under sunlight.

He broke away, finally, and supported Legolas as he caught his breath and opened his eyes.  “One day,” he said, a bit short of breath himself, “I will break you of the habit of apologizing for things that need no apology.”  He gave Legolas another kiss, shallow and soft.  “Tell me what you want now, my love.”  The endearment was easy, sliding off his tongue as though he had been using it for weeks instead of just wishing to.  “We can move further if you wish, or we can do no more than this for now if you would rather take things slowly.  I will move at whatever pace you prefer.”

Legolas hesitated.  Then he leaned forward and kissed Gimli again, still tentative but more determined than before, clearly attempting to copy what Gimli had done.  “I know not – rather, I know, in theory, what more there is than this,” he said when he pulled back, “but I find it hard to imagine, even now.”  He smiled at Gimli, shy but also mischievous in a way that made Gimli’s thighs clench.  “Will you show me?”

“I will,” said Gimli.  He could feel his heartbeat spiking, feel heat spilling down through his chest to his lower belly to his groin.  But there was something he needed to make clear first.  “I will lead us in this if you wish, but Legolas, you must promise me before we begin that if anything makes you feel uncomfortable, if there is anything that you do not want to do” – and he remembered what Legolas had said before, about the types of things that could separate an elf’s spirit from their body – “you must promise that you will not hesitate to say no.”  He seized Legolas’s hands in his once more and pressed them both to his heart.  “No matter how you say it – any problems we can talk about later, but I would not hurt you; I would not do anything to make you feel unsafe.”

Legolas’s eyes seemed larger than ever, and shining.  “I will,” he said, equally serious.  “But I trust you.  Indeed, I think I have never trusted another so much.”

“Then come to me,” Gimli said, and heat surged again in his body as he clasped a hand behind Legolas’s head and tugged him in once more.  “Come to me,” he breathed against Legolas’s lips, and then all words were lost for some time.


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Legolas and Gimli learn each other as they leave Fangorn and journey in the direction of their homes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, friends! We have reached the part of the story where our characters become involved in a sexual relationship. I adore writing intimacy, and shy away from writing explicit sex. So what we have here are some weird drabbles that go _pretty far_ but _not quite far enough._
> 
> I have to admit that I'm getting nervous about this part of the story because we're verging into territory I'm making up completely (well, with inspiration from general headcanons and other writing about these two), and it's not quite as certain ground. But we will be following both Legolas and Gimli home, and seeing how they are received by their families and people. Mirkwood will get more attention than Erebor, because like I said, this is a Legolas-centric story and I have his relationships imagined a little more fully than Gimli's. But we will be going to both places before the end of this story.
> 
> Anyway, after that introduction which may be longer than the whole chapter, here we go!

Gimli found himself uncharacteristically shy when they had both been relieved of all their clothing.  He had been seen bare before, but never like this – never had any partner looked at him the way Legolas was now: with large, curious eyes, as though trying to inspect every part of him.

But then, neither had he ever seen such love in the eyes looking at him.

“So beautiful,” Legolas murmured, reaching out as though not daring to touch.  “Like the strongest birch under the rising sun.”

Gimli caught his hand and laid it on his own hip.  “Enough talk,” he said.

* * *

Legolas had never known that he could feel like this.

His whole body was aflame and _alive_ under the touch of Gimli’s hands, the slide of his mouth.  The fire under his skin consumed him, burning away his thoughts, his voice, even the memory of speech.  He knew he was not quiet, though – could feel more than hear himself moaning, crying out, begging wordlessly.

“Is that all right?” asked Gimli, pulling back.  Gentle and careful as always, but now his smile was mischievous as well.

Legolas tried to muster a response, but the only word he could remember was, “ _Please_.”

* * *

Gimli held him through the aftershocks, letting Legolas cling to him even as waves of unearthly sensation pounded his body, whiting out all of his thoughts, and then stroking his hair as the pleasure ebbed, leaving him loose and limp and awed.

“Gimli,” he murmured, reaching up with a heavy arm to curl a lock of Gimli’s beard around his finger.

“Good?” Gimli asked, laughter in his voice.

“Wonderful.”  Legolas brought himself to sit up, to press himself full against Gimli as invitingly as possible.  “But now – your turn.”

“You need not” –

Legolas kissed him into silence.  “Show me how.”

* * *

Gimli lay back on a bed of moss, letting Legolas’s hands wander over his body.  Slim fingers traced lines of warmth along the muscles of Gimli’s chest and belly.

“I could spend a hundred years doing just this,” Legolas whispered.  He laid a kiss alongside his fingers, lips smooth on Gimli’s skin.  “Learning every part of you.  Worshipping you as you deserve.”

There was a pause as they both thought of mortality, of time – and then Legolas’s tongue flicked out, testing, and Gimli shuddered, back arching.

“As we lack the time,” he groaned, “I’d rather you got on with it.”

* * *

Legolas looked at Gimli’s sprawled figure: sated and naked and unbelievably beautiful – and _his_.  It was enough to take his breath away.

“Come,” said Gimli sleepily.  “Lie with me.”

Legolas let Gimli guide him down and curled up against Gimli’s side, head pillowed on his beard.  “We are bound, now,” he said.

“If your wedding must be a _joining_ , as you said before, then not yet,” Gimli corrected.

But Legolas would never do this, or anything like it, with another.  His heart was already bound, and the fire in his body had been kindled for one alone.

“It matters not.”

* * *

They left Fangorn finally a bit later than they had planned.  Their speed of travel, in fact, slowed down considerably, their stops to rest beginning earlier and taking longer than they had in the past.

“I like this best,” said Legolas one evening, separating Gimli’s braids out section by section as Gimli sat between his legs.  “Just the two of us under the stars – and Arod, of course.”

Gimli leaned into his chest, body melting at the gentle motions of Legolas’s fingers.  “As do I,” he said.

Neither of them spoke of how soon it was to end.  Not yet.

* * *

They did not change with one another, not really.  They still laughed and talked as they ever had; still turned to one another to show off beautiful things on their road: an unexpected patch of wildflowers; a vein of crystal in a rock outcropping.  Gimli still seemed to know whenever Legolas was discomfited; still took his hands in his to still them.

Only now they braided one another’s hair each morning, combed it out in the evening.  Now they curled close at night, bedrolls laid together as one.  And now whenever Legolas leaned down for a kiss, Gimli was waiting.

* * *

“Will you accompany me home?”

Legolas waited until they were mounted to ask, so that he would not have to look into Gimli’s eyes.  All the same, he felt Gimli still against him.

“I know you have no love for my father,” Legolas rushed when Gimli did not answer, “but I would have you meet him, and him you, and – and we would not have to say goodbye so soon.”

He did not notice that he had gone tense until he felt Gimli’s hands sliding down his arms to squeeze his forearms.  “If you will visit my home in turn.”

* * *

“Tonight,” Legolas said.

The first stage of their journey neared its end; the next day, they would reach the outskirts of Mirkwood.

“Tonight what?” asked Gimli.

Legolas pulled him close and kissed him, bold as he had not been at first, as he had learned to become.  “Marry me,” he said.  “Become my husband.”

In truth, though he believed that his family would accept the news eventually, he knew not how they would receive it at first.  He wanted the bond made and completed, wanted them to see his truth in his eyes.

Gimli kissed him back.  “Yes,” he said.


	25. Chapter 25

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Legolas returns home. Things go better than expected.

The further they drew into the forest, the more concerned Legolas became.

The smell hit him long before they reached its source: ash, and char, and smoke drifting heavy in the air.  He could not tell if the smoke smelled so strong because the fires had been recent, or large, or both – but either way, he knew that they had _been_ , that his beloved forest had not escaped this war unscathed – if you could ever call it unscathed.

He had heard, of course, of the toppling of Dol Guldur; of the fierce battles that had been fought in Mirkwood – and in Dale and Erebor alike, and while he and Gimli had the barest news of their families and kin, they knew not enough.  And though perhaps his home would be the better for it in the long run – Legolas had not yet lost the feeling of the years, and now he doubted that he ever would.

He could still see webbing, the signs of the spiders and other foul creatures that had – and still? – roamed these woods, and he kept his eyes wide and all his senses open, watching and listening for any sign – of foe or friend alike.  But as they went on and encountered nothing, his unease only grew.

The choking scent of burn and char grew stronger, and then they encountered it – the place where the burning had surely taken place.  Legolas could not say how much of the forest it had claimed, only that it came upon them subtly and then all at once: trees thinning, soil blacker, and then a great bare place: sudden open air where once trees older than Legolas himself had stood.

He stifled the cry that tried to escape, but could not hold back a sharp intake of breath.  Arod’s hooves stirred up puffs of black and white ash.

Gimli leaned closer to him, and Legolas could feel from the pressure of his head that Gimli had kissed his shoulder blade.  “I am sorry,” he said softly.

“It will grow back, I know,” Legolas said, “but” – He broke off.  How to say it – that the trees had stood for so long, that they had each had their place in this forest, that they had seen it through so much darkness that they deserved to witness it in the light?  That their lives had been lost just before the triumph they had awaited for years longer than any mortal had been alive?  That –

That now that his own days on Middle-earth were numbered, Legolas would never see the forest as it had been before the Shadow?

Gimli said nothing more, but kept his hands firm around Legolas’s waist as they continued through the burned swathe of forest, for more than his own comfort, Legolas knew.

It was some comfort to know that the damage had not claimed the whole forest.  If he had to guess, Legolas would say the burned area was like a scar running through the forest, but only covering patches of it.  After a time, tiny saplings began to reappear, younger, greener trees that had not fallen so easily to fire, and then the larger trees, and finally they were in the thickness of the forest once more, drawing ever nearer to his father’s halls – but by this point, Legolas had a new worry.

The border patrols were not so far out as they had been in the past; Legolas was not sure if this heralded good or ill.  Did his people trust so well their triumph against the Shadow that they needed no patrols?  Or had the fell creatures of Dol Guldur ventured so far that the elves had had to retreat, sketching borders further back?  Did they still roam the woods?  As the trees thickened once more, signs of webbing reappeared – but Legolas did not know if they were new, or old and leftover.

He watched and listened harder than ever as they moved on; Gimli made no further comment, but kept his hands snug at Legolas’s waist in wordless comfort.

And then.

There was a rustle in the canopy above.  A sharp intake of breath – and his name, in a voice Legolas knew better than his own.

He gave a gasp of his own and then he was moving, springing from Arod’s back with an instinctive steadying hand to keep Gimli from falling, and then his sister was leaping down from a tree and he was running forward, and he was in her arms.

She held him close, tears running from his eyes even before he buried his face in her shoulder.  “Laerwen,” he choked out, slipping immediately into Silvan, “my sister, you are well, you are alive” –

“And you, my little brother, my Greenleaf.”  She held him a moment longer and then pulled back, hands on his shoulders.  He drank her in – she was the same, so gloriously the same, no visible wounds; only her eyes were different: a little sadder, a little more tired than they had been before he left.  He wanted to ask what had happened, what all had changed, but perhaps this was not the time or the place.

“Ah, Legolas,” she sighed finally, releasing him, “it is so good to have you home at last.”  Her eyes turned aside to where Gimli had slid from Arod’s back.  “And this?” she asked, switching easily to Westron.  “Is this Gimli of the Nine Walkers, of whom we were told?  What brings you to the Greenwood, Master Dwarf?”

“Laerwen,” said Legolas, before Gimli could answer.  This news was his to break to his family, as it would be Gimli’s when they reached Erebor (though perhaps that was merely his own wishful thinking).  “Look into my eyes, and you will have your answer.”

She was no longer touching him, but still he felt her go rigid.  Very slowly, she looked from Gimli back to him, and in her face he could read her reading him.  They needed no words, had never needed them: he saw exactly when she knew everything she needed to know.

“No,” she said, low, horrified.

Legolas lifted his chin. “Yes.”

“Legolas, how?” she gasped, switching once again to their native tongue.  “Do you not know what” –

“I know.”  Legolas reached for her hand.  “But my heart has chosen, and there will be no other.”

“He is mortal, Legolas!” Laerwen whispered, as though he did not know.  Her hand clutched at his, as though already trying to hold onto him.  “Have you not lost enough – have _we_ not lost enough?  Why would you set yourself up to lose yet more – to take the risk of losing yourself as well?”

“To turn him away now would be to lose myself,” Legolas said fiercely.  “True, it is a part of myself I never knew existed until now, but I have found it, and I will not be parted from it sooner than I must.  He will die, I know this, but while he lives, so do I.  He carries part of my soul now, and, sister” – he switched to Sindarin, with all the perfection he had learned from his father’s court – “he gives me a voice.”

She looked at him for a long time and he looked steadily back.  Laerwen had ever been deadly, wit as sharp as her blades and skilled in both, but her softness had always been directed at Legolas, and he had never feared her.  Now he held her gaze and her hands, kept his eyes and face level, and watched as hers softened and sagged.

“We will speak more later,” she said finally, in the Common Tongue once more.  She turned and beckoned to Gimli.  “Come now, both of you.  Father awaits in the halls.”

Legolas returned to Arod and held out a hand to help Gimli back onto the horse, but Gimli took it in his own and stayed him for a moment.  “Well met, my lady,” he said.  “Gimli, son of Glóin, at your service.  I take it that you are the sister of whom I have heard such glowing praise?”

Legolas might have flushed, were this anyone else, but he met Laerwen’s challenging glance with a shrug.  She knew how highly he thought of her, after all.  Her face softened into a smile, though whether it was directed at him or Gimli he knew not.

“I must assume it is so, as Legolas has no other,” she said finally.  “Unfortunately, I cannot claim to have heard such praise of you – but then, my opportunities for the hearing have been slimmer than I might have hoped.”

They were almost teasing, her words, and Legolas’s heart leaped at the ease with which she said them.  He was not afraid of gaining his family’s approval – they would accept Gimli in the end, if for no reason than that they loved Legolas – but if anyone could charm his sister in only a few minutes of conversation, it was Gimli.  “The praise might have been similarly worded, had you been given the chance,” he said aloud.  “For the two of you are similar in spirit.”

“I must take that as a compliment to myself,” said Gimli, letting Legolas help him mount once more.  “Both to be compared to one so worthy” – he inclined his head to Laerwen – “and to have drawn such a soul as Legolas to me.”

Now Legolas did flush, and he saw his sister’s eyes rest on his face.  “A flatterer, I see,” she said dryly.  “I cannot but respect such charm – though you would do better to address it to our father than to me.”  She was leading them through the forest now, running quickly enough that Arod moved at a trot, but slowly enough that she was able to speak normally to them.  “For it is he whose good opinion matters most in this forest.”

Legolas laughed.  “Do not believe her, Gimli,” he urged.  “She undersells herself.”

“I suppose that, too, is a trait that runs in the family,” said Gimli, and he squeezed Legolas’s sides.   Legolas leaned back against him with a contented sigh, and although Laerwen did not turn, he knew she could hear him.

They were all silent for the rest of the journey.  Legolas closed his eyes, trusting Arod to follow Laerwen, and opened himself to the forest in a way he hadn’t even in Fangorn – to trees who knew him, who whispered joy and grief and light and the memory of darkness.  There was a lightness here that Legolas had never known, as though in absence of a heaviness that he hadn’t even known was there until now, it was gone.

He opened his eyes again and snuck a glance at Laerwen.  She had lived here centuries longer than Legolas, had known the forest before it was shadowed as deeply as it had been for Legolas’s entire life.  For as light as he felt now, the relief must be even greater for her, who had known the lightness before.

She was looking back at him, he saw, and the look in her eyes read him once more and reflected back understanding.  Their minds did not speak in words, as he had with the Lady, but there were no secrets between them.  She slowed her stride, just for a moment, to brush a hand against a tree trunk, and he almost felt it as she did.

The ride to his father’s halls was not so long, particularly not as he had met Laerwen so much closer than he had expected.  He heard Gimli draw in a breath and felt his chest expand against his own back as they approached.  For all he must have heard of the stone caverns that were their halls, he had clearly not expected what he saw.  They were caves, certainly, but carved delicately to meld with the forest as best as possible, open and spacious and well-lit, open to the air.  They had retreated to the caves in the worst days of the Shadow, but had always tried to remember that they were wood-elves first, even the Sindar court, and had done their best to integrate the caves with the woods around them.

“And you said you would pay to be free of Aglarond?” Gimli breathed into his ear.  “You, who were raised in caves?”

Legolas sighed.  “Ah, but these caverns were ever a reminder that we were not safe.  That we were hiding from a darkness that pressed in on us.  Hence my preference for the open air.”

Gimli squeezed his sides once more.  “In that case, I apologize for my words, and rejoice even more that you were able to find beauty in the underground.”

Legolas bit back his next words – _I find beauty wherever you are_ – and stole a glance at his sister instead; she was looking at them quizzically, but with what Legolas thought might be approval, and he smiled back at her.

Then they dismounted, leaving Arod at the stables (and gleaning curious looks from the stablehands), and entered the halls.

Laerwen explained as they walked that they had been alerted of Legolas’s arrival, that the trees and animals of the forest had whispered the approach of one of its returning people.  Their father had sent Laerwen to investigate.

“He could not come himself?” asked Legolas.

Laerwen shook her head.  “His time is much taken up, these days.  So much was destroyed; so many of our people wish access to the king.  And, in fact, the palace is filled with wounded and homeless still.  We will rebuild, but it will take time.  And” – she darted a quick smile at Legolas – “in your absence, I was the quickest and stealthiest.”

Legolas ducked his head at the praise, but it was true.  Where Laerwen had inherited their father’s skill with words and ability to lead, Legolas took after his mother in her speed and ability to move in the forest.  He had liked to think, during those early days with the Fellowship, that at least there was something he could bring them.

They entered the throne room, finally, and Legolas’s father was waiting for him.

He sat on his throne, grand as ever, but when Legolas entered the room, he actually rose from his chair and took a step forward.  “Legolas,” he said.

Legolas took a few steps of his own and bowed.  “Adar.”

His father moved forward to meet Legolas in the middle of the room, and even as Legolas had moved to touch his heart in greeting and affection, his father reached out and laid a hand on his shoulder.  He was not typically demonstrative with his affection, and this gesture was reserved for times of extreme grief or extreme joy.  This, it seemed, was the latter.

They did not speak.  His father simply met his eyes and held them, and everything that needed to be said passed between them.

Indeed, it did, for he could see when his father perceived it.  He stiffened.  “No,” he said, just as Laerwen had earlier.

And, just as he had earlier, Legolas held his eyes.  “Yes.”

“Legolas” –

“I have changed, Adar,” said Legolas, forestalling him, and deliberately in Common, so Gimli could hear.  “I have undertaken a hopeless quest with no prompting but Elrond’s request and my own intuition.  I have fought beside men and dwarves and hobbits in battles more final-seeming than the never-ending siege of our forest.  I have wandered under the boughs of Fangorn Forest and spoken to the oldest trees in the world, and I have heard the cry of the gulls and the call of the West.  And I have found my heart’s husband, and with him soul and voice that I never knew I could possess.”  As he spoke he remembered months before, when he had planned out his justifying and apologetic speech for Elrond, rehearsed it for days so that he would be able to speak it on command, and still almost frozen when the time came to say it.  Now he planned nothing and spoke without fear.  “I am not the same elf who ventured forth from our borders, Adar, but I am as much and more myself, and I beg that you will accept the new parts of my soul that I have discovered as much as you accepted me without them.”

His father’s hand remained on his shoulder, and a long silence fell over the room.  Finally, he closed his eyes and let his head fall for just a moment, a weariness in his features and posture that he rarely showed.

“I do not wish to lose my son,” he said, “and I cannot be glad of anything that will take him away from me.  But” – and now he looked up – “I have feared him lost again and again these many months, and I am glad to have him home, even if only for a short time.”  He lifted his hand from Legolas’s shoulder and bowed to him in turn.  “Welcome home, Legolas.”  He turned towards Gimli, then.  “And to you, beloved of my son.  Though I must begrudge you what you will take from me, I would delay the loss as long as possible.  For now, be welcome in these halls.”

Freed from his father’s gaze, Legolas turned to reach for Gimli’s hands and draw him forward.  The look of shock on Gimli’s face was not well-hidden, but he rose to the occasion admirably, bowing to Legolas’s father.  “I thank you for your welcome, Elvenking, and for your generosity in sharing with me a greater treasure than any I have ever known.”  His dark eyes found Legolas’s, gleaming with fondness, and Legolas felt himself warming and opening under the gaze, and he did not try to hide it.  Let his father and sister see his happiness, and perhaps they would truly understand what he had found.  They had both known love, both had wives waiting for them in Valinor, and he knew that they could recognize the truth of his feeling, so long as they allowed themselves to see it.

Now his father inclined his head to Gimli, and then turned back to Legolas.  “Today, the Woodland Realm welcomes back its prince,” he said, “and rejoices in the return of life from the darkness.  For now, you two may take what time you need to bathe and recover after your traveling.  But tonight, we celebrate.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so Mirkwood family headcanon time.
> 
> Like I said, I haven't seen the Hobbit movies, so Legolas's family is pretty much a blank slate. I've gleaned most of my information about the facts of his family - his father's history, mostly - from other fanfic. However, I keep seeing fanfic of Legolas with brothers, but I decided that my Legolas is more of a younger-brother-to-an-older-sister type, so that's what I gave him. I wanted his sister to take after their father a lot in looks and skills, but be generally softer and less reserved around Legolas. So I have Thranduil in typical-patriarch role, and Laerwen as kind of second-mother sister to Legolas, despite being very much their father's daughter.
> 
> Also, I have read that elves can see other elves' marital status just from looking at them. And it's not like you can unmake a bond like this. I've seen a lot of unreasonable!Thranduil, but I think mine is above all a pragmatist. And despite his general reserve, he does love his family. So he would see right away that Legolas was bonded, that there was no undoing that bond, and that if he wanted to keep his son, he'd have to accept it. This first scene isn't going to be all we see of Thranduil and Laerwen, but I decided that I wanted them to have reasonable reactions, and at least be civil to the guest in their midst, for Legolas's sake if nothing else.


	26. Chapter 26

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gimli receives a kinder shovel talk than he was anticipating.

Legolas’s quarters were open and spacious, in the highest levels of the caverns with wide skylights open to the trees and air.  Gimli shivered when they entered, and Legolas looked to him in concern.

“I am sorry, Gimli; I forgot,” he said.  “I have shades for the windows, to keep out the rain, but that will do little for the chill.  I can build a fire, if that would suit you?”

“No need to go out of your way,” Gimli assured him, but he could not help shivering again as he spoke, and Legolas did not miss it.  Without speaking, he was by Gimli’s side, hands busy at the lacings of his outer tunic, and then the fastenings of his mail.

Gimli gave him a look.  “You think to warm me by disrobing me?” he asked.  “Or did you have other plans in mind?”

“I have many plans,” Legolas murmured, his voice gone dark and filled with promise that sent a shiver through Gimli that had nothing to do with the chill.  “But first things first.”  He dropped Gimli’s outer things to the floor and in a flash was to the bed and back with a thick blanket, which he wrapped around Gimli’s shoulders.

Gimli tried to brush him off, protesting being coddled, but the blanket was soft and warm, and Legolas pulled it snug around Gimli and left his arms there, guiding them both to the bed and toppling them over onto the covers in a heap of bodies and blanket.  “Are you warmed now?” he breathed in Gimli’s ear.

“Always, so long as you are by my side.”  Gimli twisted his head, seeking Legolas’s lips, and caught his nose instead, then his cheek, then the corner of his mouth.  “But I can think of a few ways to warm me further.”

Legolas twisted away, laughing.  “As I said,” he said, “first things first.”  And before Gimli could protest he was off the bed and across the room, piling wood in the fireplace.

Gimli sat up slowly, holding the blanket close around his shoulders.  Ordinarily he would go help Legolas build the fire, or at least heckle his building it, but for the moment he needed time to simply think.  His reception by Legolas’s father had been – unexpected, to say the least.  He had never heard good things of the Elvenking, and had not expected to be so easily accepted.  Well, he supposed that “accepted” was not quite the right word, as Thranduil had not opened warm arms – but tired resignation was much warmer than the cold fury he had expected.  He had even thought nervously of dungeons, though Legolas had laughed at his fears.  And now . . .

“There,” said Legolas, returning from the fireplace where he had set a small but merry blaze crackling and enfolding Gimli into his arms once more.  “That should warm the room well enough.  There is a bathing chamber in the adjoining room – I will fetch hot rocks to make the water warm, for it runs only cold – and when we have finished, the fire will have banished the chill.”

But no sooner had he said it than there was a tap on the door, and Laerwen’s clear voice called in, “Legolas, are you within?”

Legolas looked a question at Gimli, who nodded, so Legolas rose.  As he did, Gimli cast the blanket aside and wished that Legolas had not been quite so quick to strip him of his armor.  He could have used the layer of security it offered.  Unbidden, irrational fears stabbed into his head – the thought of being murdered, here, in a hall of elves, without ever seeing his family again.

But – no, Legolas was here, and Gimli would trust Legolas with his life.  And on that thought, Legolas opened the door to allow his sister entrance into the room.

As before, when they had met her in the woods, it was a shock to see her – as fair as Legolas was dark, hair like sunshine and skin like the moon.  Too, there was danger in her bearing: upright and stern, without the slight slump that Gimli hadn’t even realized Legolas _had_ until seeing the rest of his family.  She was beautiful, no doubt, but Gimli did not find himself enraptured as he had been with Galadriel.  Rather, she reminded him of her father: in fact, she looked and carried herself so much like Thranduil that when Gimli had first seen her embrace Legolas in the wood, he had thought her to be the Elvenking himself.

“Legolas,” she said.  “I heard you say something of retrieving bathing things.”  Gimli felt himself flush as he remembered that the elves here could most likely hear everything they had discussed.  “If you wish to do so now, I would have a private word with your husband.”

Legolas hesitated.  “Laerwen,” he began, but Gimli waved him off.

“No, let her speak to me.”  It would have to happen eventually, after all.  “I would not have you fight all my battles for me – I am, after all, a proven warrior.”  He smiled, hoping the jest would put Legolas at ease.

“You know not what you ask,” Legolas warned.  “My sister is a more formidable foe than forty-two Orcs – or Éomer and a company of Rohirrim!  But if it is what you both wish, then I will leave you here for the time.”  He stood back to let her into the room, and then accompanied her back to the bed, bending to kiss Gimli almost defiantly.  Gimli flashed his eyes to where Laerwen still stood over them, but he could not read her expression.

Legolas drew back.  “I will return shortly with everything we need.”  He and his sister had a quick exchange in their own tongue – which was going to need to stop; Gimli would have to speak to Legolas about it – and he tossed a smile over his shoulder before leaving the room.

For a long moment, Gimli and Laerwen simply stared at one another, Gimli sizing up this elf, Legolas’s sister – who he supposed was now his sister as well.  Again, her resemblance to Thranduil took him off guard.  Made it hard for him to speak.  And she had asked for this, after all – let her break the silence.

“Gimli,” she said at last.  “May I call you Gimli?”

He shrugged.  “It would be appropriate, as we are now related.”

She flinched, then sighed, and came to sit across from him on the bed.  “Indeed we are.  I suppose you might have hoped for a warmer reception?”

“ _Legolas_ hoped,” Gimli corrected her.  “To be quite honest, I expected a colder.”

“And why was that?” she asked.  “What stories has your family told you of mine?”

“Mostly they featured dungeons,” Gimli admitted.

To his surprise she laughed, looking away from him and pushing a hand through her hair.  “Son of Glóin,” she murmured.  “I have met your father before – outside the dungeon incident.  Did you know that?”

Gimli blinked, and then shook his head.

“Once Erebor was reestablished as a kingdom, I took over the duties as ambassador,” she explained.  “We made our peace, as best we could – though I doubt not he begrudges us yet, and perhaps with good reason. It is an incident for which I cannot truly apologize, but I cannot in turn censure those who would hold it against us.”  She paused.  “Do you, Gimli?”

“I” – Gimli suddenly found he knew not what to say.  “I was not” –

She shook her head as though impatient with herself, a habit Gimli had seen in Legolas as well.  “I do not mean to press you.  Forgive me my wandering thoughts.  I do not ask you to pass judgment on my father’s and my actions, in our halls.  I know Legolas is glad to have you here, and I would not drive you away.”

“I am glad to be here,” Gimli dared, “dungeons aside, for Legolas’s sake at least.”

Laerwen smiled, though it was small and weak.  “I have visited Erebor once a decade since the Battle of Five Armies,” she said.  “My interactions were typically limited to King Dain and his advisors – now King Thorin, after the battles fought here” – she bowed her head and they were both silent for a moment in memory of the king, whose fall had been reported to Gimli during the time they stayed in Gondor – “but that does not mean that I did not see dwarves in the halls.  Perhaps, at times, you were even one of them.”

“I may have been,” Gimli said.  “For I recall seeing you, now that I have met you.”  Though he had not, at the time, realized who she was.  When Legolas had told him of his sister, he had pictured someone similar in appearance to Legolas.  Now, witnessing her pronounced resemblance to Thranduil, he realized that he had made the same mistake as in the woods earlier and thought that the Elvenking himself had come to their halls.

She shook her head.  “Then I am sorry that I do not remember you in turn,” she said, “though I doubt I was paying enough attention – and you mortals change so quickly and so extensively that it is possible that I do have an image of you in mind, and you simply no longer fit it.  And that is the crux of the matter.”  Her tone changed to something firm and decisive; she looked straight at him, and he gazed back into gray eyes as bright and sharp as steel.  “Understand,” she said, “I do not protest your marriage to Legolas on grounds of your race.  I hold no grudge against dwarves as a people.  But you will break my brother’s heart, Gimli Glóin’s son, and that I cannot forgive you.”

“I will not” – Gimli began to protest, and then his mouth snapped shut.  He understood now what she had discussed so passionately with Legolas earlier that day.  And she was right: one day, hopefully many years from now but inevitably, he would die and leave Legolas alone.

She nodded, her face set and her eyes grim.  “So you begin to see.  I doubt you would do so intentionally – I trust Legolas’s intuition in his choice – but you will break his heart, sooner or later.  You will go where he can never follow, and I fear what will happen to him when that day comes.”

Gimli took a deep breath.  “As do I,” he said.  “And I – I know not what to do about it.  I am sorry.  But as you said, Legolas has made his choice – and so have I.  I will not turn away from him while I live.”

Laerwen’s eyes knifed into him once more.  “I choose to believe you,” she said at last, “and yet I find that I cannot forgive you.  Out of love for my brother, out of my own desire to keep him always safe, I cannot forgive you.  So I ask you: can you forgive me this?  Can you find it in your heart, for Legolas’s sake, to accept me as a sister knowing that a part of me will resent you always?”

Gimli remained silent for a moment, letting the shock of what she had said seep into him.  He supposed it was not the kindest or most loving of welcomes – and yet, could he ever have hoped for anything more?  For all that he knew Legolas would not be immediately welcomed among his own kin, he had feared this meeting much more, for he knew that he would be taking away Legolas in a much more damaging way than Legolas would him.  If his father and company had been thrown into dungeons just for trespassing, what would happen to Gimli when he tried to take away the Elvenking’s son?  To receive a welcome, even a grudging one, to hear Laerwen ask him to accept her as family –

“I can,” he said finally, “and will do so gladly, if you will accept me as a brother in return, for all your rightful resentment.”

He made himself hold still as her eyes swept over him once more – seeming to take in every inch of him and immediately catalogue all his weaknesses.  “I can,” she said.  “But that does not mean I will not be watching you.  I choose to take you at your word – for now.  But know that if you do anything to harm my brother” –

She broke off with a warning look, which was quite sufficient for the end of the sentence. “I understand,” Gimli croaked.

“Good.”  Voice crisp now, she rose gracefully from the bed.  “That is all I wished to say.  I will leave you for now, but I imagine I will see you at the feast this evening.”

“I imagine so,” Gimli managed.

She turned to leave, but when she had reached the door, she turned back to face him.  “Remember,” she said, and to his utter shock, her next words were in Khuzdul, heavily accented, but recognizable nonetheless.  It was a phrase used in mines when the ground was unsteady, or by parents to warn unruly children to behave – but in this case he knew it meant only _beware_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My explanation for Laerwen knowing some Khuzdul: I don't imagine that she'd learn much, given how private dwarves are and good at keeping their secrets, but I like to think that Erebor and Mirkwood are on at least civil terms - they're all against the same Enemy, after all - and that given the upheaval in the last few decades, they'd interact about once every ten years. And in my head, Laerwen has been Mirkwood's emissary - she's not as important as the king, but she's well-versed in politics and diplomacy, and he'd want someone he trusts implicitly going to talk to the dwarves. And when there's an elf in the halls, dwarves are going to be muttering: either parents warning their children to be careful around her, or some prejudiced dwarves muttering at her to watch herself, even though they know she won't understand. So I imagine she's picked up enough to know a warning when she hears it, and be able to repeat it to Gimli.
> 
> (Also, that conversation she and Legolas had was him asking her to be gentle with Gimli. Which I think she was, all things considered.)
> 
> The lovely images were done by [saltybravado](http://saltybravado.tumblr.com/) in reference to a discussion I had with her about how adorable Gimli is wrapped in a blanket.


	27. Chapter 27

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More reunions are had, and Legolas discovers that it isn't just Mirkwood that has been wounded.

The halls were different.

Not different in shape, of course – stone did not change so easily, and would not have done so in a matter of months.  But they had been arranged differently, at least the parts that Legolas could see.  He had intended to go to the kitchen to fetch hot rocks and some boiling water, but where he would have passed through the feasting hall to get there, he found that all the tables had been moved out and replaced with beds.

Laerwen had mentioned this, he realized.  That many of the wounded had been moved back to the palace to protect them, and he supposed they had not been well enough to move back out.  He stopped in the entrance to the halls and stared.

“Legolas?” came a voice, and then a whisper ran through the room – a whisper that he could hear.  “Legolas! Our prince has returned!”

Of course they all knew that this was exactly the sort of situation he generally preferred to avoid, but he supposed he could forgive them, as he had been away for so long, and so much violent war had been waged.  He was of course pleased to come home as well, though he could not claim to see his home as whole as it saw him now.

(Though “whole,” he supposed, was a relative term: the changes wrought to his spirit were permanent, and would not be undone so easily as trees growing back, even if it took a thousand years.  He would be gone by then.)

Still he hesitated in the doorway – for so many of them would want to talk to him, surely, and he did not want to speak to them; there were so few to whom he did want to speak –

And then another voice, more familiar than the rest, but his heart sank to hear it here.  “Legolas.”

Eleniel knew how to speak to him, to be sure, to calm him when his heart and mind were unable to be still, but now her voice rasped in a way that it should not, and he heard it in a place he should not, and he turned, and – and –

“Eleniel,” he moaned in distress.

The second of his unit, enforcer of his decisions; his dear friend, closer than cousin – and indeed, they had been mistaken for kin before; Legolas resembled her in a way he did not his father, his sister – but now they looked little alike, for she – she –

She smiled with half her face.  “I am pleased to see you again,” she said.

Legolas could not speak.

The impacts of the fire had been devastating enough to see on the forest: the trees fallen, the ash stirred by lonely squirrels seeking homes that had been lost.  But now Legolas saw the full force of the battle that had been fought here on the entire right side of his friend’s body.

She was clothed in a soft white robe – loose enough, he could see, that it did not disturb her tortured flesh more than it had to – but where her arm extended from the fabric, he could see burned and blistered skin, her hand shriveled and wasted.  She leaned heavily on a cane on her left side, and he could see that the burns continued down her leg.  And her face – half her face was blistered like the rest of her flesh, hair cropped to barely an inch all around her head, her right eye swollen shut –

“Do not look at me like that, Legolas,” she said softly.

That snapped him back to himself.  She was right – he was staring, and it was not fair.  “I am sorry, Eleniel,” he said, and moved forward to rest a hand on her undamaged one.  “I am glad to see you again, as well.  If not so hale as I would have hoped.”  And still he could not but wonder – those wounds should have healed, it seemed, but –

“There was some sorcery in the fire they used, we think,” she said, catching his thought as always.  “The healers think I will regain the use of my eye, eventually, and perhaps my hand.  But the scarring is likely to stay, and this side will ever be weaker than the other.  My days as your second may be over, my friend.”

At that, he could only laugh, a little ruefully.  “Well, you will not be replaced, if it is any comfort.  I think that my days as your first have ended as well.”

“You” – She looked into his eyes, more closely than before, as though looking for the change – and as with the others, he saw when she saw it: her good eye widened, her mouth half-opened with questions unasked.

“We have much to discuss,” he said – unnecessarily, he could see.  “Would you have permission from the healers to walk with me awhile?  I have hot rocks to fetch – and there is someone I would have you meet, if you are willing.”

* * *

“A dwarf, Legolas?” Eleniel said.  Skepticism sounded the same in her voice as it ever had, even with the new roughness that accompanied every vowel.  “And the very dwarf who” –

“The very dwarf.”  He could laugh, now, for he remembered how Eleniel had seen him that day, early in their acquaintance.  “It was not the most auspicious of beginnings, to be sure, but he found his way into my heart – and I, somehow, into his.”

The walk back to Legolas’s chambers was slower than it had been; he had fetched the rocks and carried them now, steaming in the bottom of a small tub of boiled water.  It would not have slowed him down so much alone, but Eleniel was slower than before as well, leaning heavily on her cane.  Legolas paced his steps to hers, careful not to spill his burden.

“And now he speaks to your sister,” said Eleniel.  “Which is sure to go well.”

“I have faith,” Legolas insisted.  “They are both reasonable.  Wait.”  He had remembered something.  “How did Laerwen react when you returned home, all those months ago?  Was it as perilous as you feared?”

“She did nothing to me, though I think she was furious with you.  As was your father.”  Eleniel gave him a wry look.  “They both locked themselves away from all else.  I should not have heard this” –

“So of course you made it your business to find out,” interjected Legolas.

“ – _but_ ,” She ignored him, “it was my impression that his activities involved copious wine consumption.”

“Shockingly.”

“Just so.”  She laughed, though her laugh was more subdued than it had been in the past, the sound harsh and raspy, and she had to stop and cough a few times before she could speak again.  Legolas reached out, a hand fluttering over her back, not sure whether to touch, but she recovered herself quickly and spoke again, apparently eager to draw as little attention to her infirmity as possible.  “Your sister also disappeared into her chambers for days.  As to her activities, however, I can offer no guess.”

“Guessing Laerwen’s actions is always dangerous,” Legolas agreed.  And even as he said her name, they arrived outside the doors of his room.  He listened, but could hear no voices – Laerwen must have already departed.  He tapped gently at the door.  “Gimli?  Are you yet within?”

“And do you live still?” chimed in Eleniel.

“Very amusing.”  Gimli opened the door to let them in, displaying only a moment of surprise at seeing Eleniel.  He had put his armor back on, Legolas could see, and he felt a moment’s guilt for having led Gimli into the position of facing his sister with such vulnerability.  “Nay, I believe your sister and I have reached an agreement.  And here you inflict the company of a dwarf on yet more of your folk!”  He nodded to Eleniel.  “Greetings.  I am Gimli, son of Glóin, at your service.”

“And I at yours, Gimli, son of Glóin.”  Eleniel inclined her head to Gimli, though to bow would have thrown off her balance.  “I am Eleniel, formerly second to Legolas in the third archery unit of the Guard.  We encountered one another briefly in Rivendell, though I do not believe we were officially introduced.”

Legolas saw the surprise flicker briefly over Gimli’s face, probably as he tried to recall when he had seen Eleniel before.  Legolas feared suddenly that Gimli would say something of her wounds – though of course he knew Gimli was too tactful for that, but he looked back and forth between the two of them and hoped that nothing would go wrong –

“Eleniel accompanied me to Rivendell to break the news of Gollum’s escape to Lord Elrond,” he said, his voice too loud – and he did not fear what either would think of him, but introducing his two closest friends to one another tugged at his nerves, and he hoped that they would get along: hoped with a desperation that he had not foreseen, when imagining this meeting.  “She is one of my closest friends.  Eleniel, though he has already introduced himself to you, this is Gimli, my husband.”

“It surprised me,” Eleniel said, “to see Legolas return home married.  But that was far from the worst outcome I feared for him on your journey, and he tells me that you have kept him sound in body and heart.  So I offer my thanks, Gimli son of Glóin, and I wish you joy.”

Gimli blinked, and looked back and forth between Legolas and Eleniel for a moment, before smiling.  “And again I find that the legends about the discourtesy and arrogance of elves have been far exaggerated,” he said.  “I am pleased to meet you, Eleniel.  May our acquaintance be long and happy.”

Eleniel smiled, though there was a hint of sadness in her eyes as well.  “That would be my wish as well,” she said, and Legolas knew what she was thinking because it was what they all were thinking: things that could not be changed, and lives that would ever be too short.  But before the conversation could become too maudlin, she spoke again.  “But I should leave you before your hot water cools, Legolas.  I have heard tell of a feast tonight, and I imagine I shall see you there.”

“Already the news has been spread?” asked Legolas.  “You did not even know of my return when I first encountered you” –

“We knew of your return!” Eleniel objected.  “We merely did not expect to see you so soon.  You act as though you do not know your own father – have you forgotten so much, friend, that you remember not how seriously he takes celebration?”

Legolas laughed.  “You are right, of course,” he said.  “Then I will plan to see you tonight.”

“That you will,” she said, and turned to limp away.  It was in Legolas’s mind to ask if she needed to be walked back to the healers – but she had made it here, after all, and he knew he would not have appreciated such an invitation.  So he merely watched her until she was out of sight, then closed the door with a relieved sigh.

Gimli was watching him closely.  “I must say,” he said, “I am surprised by the warmth of my greeting.”

“As am I,” confessed Legolas.  “I knew they would accept eventually, but I had not hoped for all to go so well.”  Though he could not deny that it was a weight off his mind.

Gimli said nothing more of the elves, or of his encounters here – and that was just as well, for Legolas could not have asked for an impression immediately.  Instead, he turned to the bucket that Legolas held.  “I believe,” he said, “that some mention was made of bathing?  We have a feast to attend tonight, after all.”

Legolas let out a sigh, thinking longingly of a quiet evening in his chambers.  “Yes, we do,” he said.


	28. Chapter 28

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thranduil throws a feast. Some elves are glad, some are not, and Legolas and Gimli are newlyweds.

When Gimli caught his first look at Legolas in his clothing for the feast that night, he wondered why dwarves held such a grudge against elves.

All of the reasons caught up with him seconds later, of course, and it wasn’t as though he had entertained the idea for long – but dwarves loved treasure, and Gimli had never seen a gem as beautiful as Legolas.

He had seen Legolas in finery, of course: at Aragorn’s coronation and again at his wedding, but even that had been understated, the better to blend in with the crowd.  And at all other times Legolas preferred his simple traveling or hunting clothes, green and brown to better match the forests he loved.

In truth, when Gimli looked more closely at the clothing Legolas wore now, he could not find too many differences from the traveling clothes.  The colors were similar, and the cut likewise simple and tailored for freedom of movement.  But the clothes were richer: the dark green fabric shimmered like an uncut emerald, trimmed with gold at the edges.  He had braided his own hair tonight, and had woven dark green leaves and vines in with his braids, so that they made a sort of circlet around his head and then trailed down with the rest of his hair.  He looked like royalty as Gimli had never seen him, but _forest_ royalty, and his home seemed to settle around him like the wrap that he wore around his shoulders, the one impractical addition to his outfit.

And yet he stared at _Gimli_ as though he had never seen anything more beautiful, and offered him an arm.  “Are you ready, my love?” he asked.

Gimli took a deep breath.  Staring at Legolas had helped him forget that he was about to attend a celebration with woodland elves – the very elves who had imprisoned his father years before, who probably remembered the incident perfectly, and who had no fondness for dwarves, even as he had no love for them.

Still, Legolas was smiling at him, and Gimli trusted Legolas.

“Ready,” he said, sliding his hand into Legolas’s.  “Let us go.”

* * *

Legolas wished, as he never had before, that he had a close friend who was wedded.

There were things that were new to him, things he could not ask Gimli because he was not an elf, and things he could ask no elf, either.  Things for which he had not prepared himself.

He had expected and understood the awakening of his body.  Though he could not have known what it would feel like, he at least understood that he felt _something_ , and it had not been difficult to identify the differences in what he felt.  Even how all-consuming it was – he _wanted_ now, all the time in a way he never had before – was something with which he had been able to reconcile himself, deciding it must simply be the newness of the relationship.

But there were other things.  Like tonight.

He had seen Gimli in fine clothes before.  Gimli always liked being put together – was one of the better-dressed in the Fellowship, in fact, and had taken his grooming and dressing seriously when they were in Gondor, on all the days that he did not have to work.  He had dressed in more finery on the days of Aragorn’s coronation and wedding, in clothing that he had carefully designed for the tailors in Minas Tirith to make for him.  And Legolas had seen him through all of it, and had perhaps admired him, but this –

It had never been like this.

Now, he saw Gimli in his fine clothing, and he could not take his _eyes_ off of him.

He did not understand it!  He had seen Gimli in these very clothes at Aragorn’s wedding, had noted even then the contrast of the rich blue with Gimli’s fiery hair, the way that the golden designs across the torso drew attention to the strength of his arms and chest.  But while the sight had certainly pleased him, there was not this low-burning fire in his belly, in his blood.  There was not this constant desire to _touch_ , in ways that may not have been entirely proper before one’s friends and kin.  And he did not understand it, for they were only clothes!  The fabric that draped him changed nothing about the way Gimli was, and nothing about the way Gimli was had changed since they had made their bond.  And yet it was somehow so different.

If only there were someone he could have asked – asked why these changes, and whether it would always be like this.  But Eleniel was unwed, and this was not something he could ask Laerwen – and even the thought of asking his father made him force down a surge of hysterical laughter.

Ah, well.  There was nothing to be done for it now, even if looking at Gimli gave him this tingling pleasantly-uncomfortable feeling low in his gut, a feeling that could easily be kindled into true desire if he only gave it enough attention.  He focused on Gimli’s hand in his, leading him out to where they were to gather for their revels.

The clearing his father had chosen was the very one where the party of dwarves had been arrested so many years ago, after disrupting a feast like this one.  Legolas had not been party to the imprisonment efforts, but he remembered the occasion well enough.  He wondered if he should say something to Gimli – but looking over, he realized that Gimli clearly did not know the history of this particular place.

Legolas knew perfectly well that his father had done it on purpose, but he supposed that as long as no one mentioned it aloud it was as good as harmless.  His father was obviously not entirely pleased with his choice, but that was no more than Legolas had expected.  In fact, given how well he had so far taken the whole situation, if he was constraining himself to passive revenges, Legolas took that as a sign of their good fortune.

The clearing had been spread with food of all kinds, all of Legolas’s favorite foods that he had not eaten in months.  How had they prepared this so quickly?  Or had his father simply had some of it ready, waiting for his return? – and that thought made Legolas’s stomach twinge a little with guilt at their delay.  Still, he could not have regretted it – and again he turned to Gimli beside him, and he could not help smiling.

“What is it?” asked Gimli.

“It is nothing,” said Legolas, smiling wider.  “Only that I am glad you are here.”

“As am I,” Gimli said, squeezing Legolas’s hand, and even if it was a lie, it was bravely spoken.

Legolas’s heart beat a bit faster as he led Gimli to the table set out for their family.  The rest of the elves would sit on the ground, but his father always had a small table set for the royal family and any honored guests.  But today, Gimli was not an honored guest: the table had space for each of them, and for their partners.  Laerwen had long since taken their mother’s seat, at their father’s right hand, for she had sailed to Valinor even before this clearing had been in use at celebrations.  But Siril’s seat remained empty (and would for the next two hundred years, as was traditional), as did the seat to Legolas’s left, where his partner would sit.  Where he led Gimli tonight.

He saw, as he pressed Gimli into the chair, that a cushion had been added: an extra layer of padding both for the bones of the mortal and the height of the dwarf who would occupy it, and Legolas marveled once more at the tiniest of gestures that his father had made – the first to mock, and the second to honor, Legolas’s husband.

This, too, Legolas thought he would not mention.  Instead he held Gimli’s hand under the table, smiled at him as reassuringly as possible, and prepared himself for the welcome of his people.

* * *

Gimli was glad of Legolas’s hand in his as groups of elves streamed in.  For all that his welcome had been initially warmer, he felt less trust of this place than he had of Lothlorien – perhaps it was born in part of the stories he had been told for most of his life; perhaps the darkness of the forest darkened his thoughts in turn; or perhaps it was because – for all that he now stood at Legolas’s side – he could not help fearing that Legolas would be taken away from him at any moment.

But Legolas kept hold of his hand, stroking his thumb over Gimli’s knuckles in a gentle soothing gesture and smiling reassuringly whenever Gimli looked in his direction.  And the elves in the clearing seemed to have been appraised of his presence – while more than a few looked at him in surprise, and there was no shortage of contempt in the faces, many seemed to simply accept his presence.  Gimli wondered at it.

Catching his thought, Legolas leaned close until his lips brushed Gimli’s ear and whispered, “Gossip travels swiftly in the Woodland Realm.”

“I suppose so,” responded Gimli just as softly, though he was sure all the elves could hear him.

Laerwen approached their table, then, ethereal in robes of shimmering silver that seemed to float around her rather than fall to the ground, a gleaming circlet announcing her status as crown princess.  “Good evening, Legolas, Gimli,” she said.  Gimli started a bit at the lack of formality, for all that she had asked his permission, but decided that it could only be a good thing.

Legolas turned to her and beamed.  “Good evening,” he said.

It was a pleasure to watch Legolas with his sister, for all that Gimli still felt vaguely intimidated by her.  He had spoken of her so often and with such admiration, and Gimli had seen such unreserved affection between the siblings, that for all his wariness he greeted Laerwen with warmth of his own.

She seated herself two chairs to Legolas’s right.  The ornate chair between them must be for Thranduil, reasoned Gimli, and to be sure it looked like a throne, if modified for an outdoor celebration.  And no sooner had he made that observation that Thranduil himself appeared, seeming to glide along the paths and into his chair, acknowledging all of them with a regal nod, though his face softened into a smile when he looked upon Legolas.

It was strange, looking on them this way: Thranduil and Laerwen so alike, their coloring and carriage so similar, while Legolas looked so different from the both of them and more similar to the other elves who congregated around the tables.  His mother must have looked more like him, Gimli imagined, but she was gone – departed over sea long ago, Legolas had explained.  There were more chairs at the table than people, and Gimli wondered who else might be missing.

But then there was no time to wonder, for the elves were all falling silent.  Thranduil had been the last to enter, it seemed, and now all eyes were on the table where the royal family.  Gimli did not think he was imagining that many more rested on him than on the king.

Legolas squeezed his hand under the table, but spoke not, his eyes trained on his father, waiting.  And Thranduil began to speak.

His first speech was in a language Gimli did not understand – he listened to the sounds, to try to make out whether it was the Sindarin he had heard from other elves, or the Silvan that he knew most of these elves spoke best.  But Thranduil had only spoken a few sentences – not enough for him to tell – when a quiet groan rippled through the crowd.

Legolas echoed the sound, burying his face in his hands (and extracting his left from Gimli’s in the process).  Gimli looked around to try to understand and caught Laerwen’s eye on accident; her lips were pressed together but her eyes were gleaming with laughter.

Gimli had just poked Legolas in the shoulder to ask when Thranduil repeated his speech – in Westron, this time.  “We gather tonight to celebrate,” he said, his voice ringing over the remnants of groans and giggles.  “I know that we are weary.  Our hearts are worn from days of fire and years of shadow.  But hope comes once more with the lifting of the darkness, and tonight we rejoice in the green leaves that bloom in the wake of the darkness.”  There was a new wave of snickers, but Thranduil kept his face perfectly calm.  “Behold! our Prince has returned to us!”  And he swept out an arm for Legolas to stand.

Gimli nudged Legolas when he would have remained sitting, and he finally stood, blushing but smiling.  But Thranduil was not finished yet.  “He brings with him his husband: Gimli of Erebor, of the Nine Walkers.  We welcome him this night as a hero of the Ring War, and thank him for safeguarding the life and heart of our Prince.”

And to Gimli’s shock he held out an arm for Gimli to rise as well.  The clapping and praise was certainly less, certainly riddled with murmurs, but Legolas reached out a hand and pulled Gimli to his feet, and beamed at him as they stood in a place of honor.

When they sat once more, Gimli leaned over to whisper to Legolas.  “Why did everyone laugh?” he asked.  “What did your father say?”

Legolas groaned again and put his head down on the table, but across from him, Laerwen gave a bright laugh – not quite as charming as her brother’s, but then, Gimli was biased.

“His name,” she whispered.  “In our tongue, it means _green leaf_.”

And Gimli laughed as well, even as Legolas kicked him under the table.

* * *

To Legolas’s never-ending relief, his father had not asked him to give a speech.  He was not often asked to do such things, but every now and then his father would put down his foot about Legolas learning to behave like a member of the royal family. Today, though, his family seemed disposed to be merciful, and his father’s brief speech was all that prefaced the celebration.  Then it was time for food and music.

Legolas kept a close eye on Gimli throughout, looking for any sign that he was uncomfortable.  To be sure, he did not seem inclined to speak to many others, but then, neither was Legolas, and he had lived with them for most of his life.  Instead, Legolas piled both of their plates high, choosing the best of each dish for Gimli, and keeping their glasses full.  Wine was the best way to endure a feast like this, and Legolas had learned the fine art of drinking just enough to blur the edges, but not too much to do anything he would regret later – and he could see from the cautious way that Gimli sipped that he too did not want to become too inebriated tonight.

The music began soon after, and Legolas could not stop smiling to hear it.  It was so different from the music played in the courts of Gondor, or even in Rivendell – there they used courtly instruments but simple melodies.  Here it was the opposite: music played mostly on flute and drum.  There were small harps here and there, and some elves played other instruments, but they kept the instrumentation simple – but the harmonies and the rhythms were complex and beautiful, and Legolas’s heart sang with them.

After a few moments, he realized Gimli was staring at him meaningfully.

“What is it?” he asked.  Cast his mind back over what had happened; if anything could have transpired that he had missed.  “Did something” –

“Nothing is wrong!” Gimli said hastily.  “I was merely thinking back on our conversation before Helm’s Deep – and a certain experience that was offered me.”  He raised an eyebrow.  “What, do you not remember?”

Legolas cast his mind back.  In truth, everything else about Helm’s Deep had faded far back into his memory except for those horrible hours when he had thought Gimli lost, and then the beautiful moment of finding him again.  But after some sorting, he found it again – their conversation before the battle, his sudden desire to bring Gimli home with him –

His head snapped up: Gimli was smiling at him.

“I do,” he said, “and you are right.”  He cocked his head.  “Now?”

“Only if you wish it,” said Gimli, but he seemed to know that Legolas did.

Legolas extended a hand to his sister.  “Laerwen,” he said, “the music calls me to join.  Will you come with me?”

She took it.  “My song has been emptier without yours, little brother.”

Together, they rose from the table and moved to the center of the clearing, where the musicians had begun playing.  Legolas had said to Gimli long ago that singing need not be a performance – for to him, it never was.  There were others watching and listening, but he closed his eyes and shut everything else away, keeping only the crispness of the air, the faint whispers of the stars, the warmth of Laerwen at his side.  He breathed in the sound of the music, let the drumbeats lift him up, and sang.

And ah, it was lovely!  It had been long since he had sung with someone who knew him so well – who felt the song of the stars and the forest in the same way he did.  And for all that he had sung with his companions, it had been rare to sing with a female voice, in which he took the lower harmonies.  Once with Arwen in Gondor had been the closest he had come.  Now Laerwen soared in descant over his lower line as they sang in long-practiced and improvised harmonies, passing the melody seamlessly back and forth between them.

Slowly, Legolas became aware that the instruments beneath them had begun to cut out, the flute lines trailing off one by one, the drumbeat slowing to a complete stop, and then it was just their voices.  He opened his eyes and looked at Laerwen for a cue; she nodded, and together they wound to a conclusion, his voice lowering as deep as it would go and hers rising to the peak of her range – and together they held the final note, and then at a twitch of her fingers, cut off.

There was a smattering of clapping, but Legolas had eyes for only one.

Gimli was smiling at him, his eyes gleaming with admiration and _promise_ , and Legolas shivered with the excitement and newness, gave Laerwen one last smile, and went back to where his husband sat.

“Well?” he said.

Gimli threaded his fingers through Legolas’s once more.  “As beautiful as you promised – if different from the music to which I am accustomed.  When we go to my home, I will return the favor, and you will hear dwarvish music echoing in our halls.”

“I look forward to it,” Legolas murmured, which was true as long as he did not think of the other experiences that awaited him in Erebor, and brought their joined hands to his lips to place a kiss on Gimli’s knuckles.

The revels continued, food and wine and music and dancing.  Legolas remained sitting for the most part, preferring Gimli’s company to any other.  He rose at one point to attempt to dance with Eleniel, but the weakness in her limbs and lungs did not allow her to dance to any of the more vigorous tunes, and they soon gave up the attempt in disappointment.

It was as he stood there with her that the voice cut in, loud and clear above the others.  “Prince Legolas.”

Legolas snapped to attention, almost automatically, at the voice of his former archery master.  “Maeglad,” he acknowledged.

“I wonder if you would favor us with another demonstration,” said Maeglad.  “All these months away, fighting with men and dwarves, killing orcs instead of spiders – surely your skills could use some honing.”  His eyes were sparkling.  “Perhaps you would indulge an old teacher and demonstrate an archery run for us – to prove that you have not lost any of your ability.”

As if Legolas could have said no!  Maeglad had not given him an order, but Legolas was still under his command – and after a challenge like that, it was not in him to refuse.  And his thoughts turned once more to Gimli, who would have never seen something like a Mirkwood archery run.  Perhaps Legolas was showing off a bit, but he could not help it.

“I would,” he said, bowing to Maeglad.

As Maeglad went to fetch the weapons, Eleniel squeezed Legolas’s arm.  “I will go sit with your husband, shall I?” she whispered.

“Thank you” –

She waved a hand.  “Of course,” she said, and then smiled wickedly.  “I will watch him as he watches the show.”

And when he went to protest, it only took one knowing look to quiet him.

* * *

“May I join you?”

The voice startled Gimli, for its owner had come upon him so suddenly, but he recognized it well enough, because it sounded so different.  Lower, rougher than the other clear voices he had heard.  Legolas’s friend, Eleniel – whom he did not remember from Rivendell, and he knew not if it was because he had never met her or because she had not been so grievously wounded then.  But either way, he knew well enough not to mention it.

“Of course,” he said, shifting over on the bench and making room for her to sit.  He kept his eyes ahead, though, on where Legolas was getting ready: he had thrown off his wrap, which lay in a pile on the ground, and was stringing his bow, standing poised at the edge of the course.

Eleniel let out a wistful sigh.  “I so rarely have the opportunity to watch this,” she said, “but I do wish I could join in rather than watch, as ever before.”

“Were you wounded in the fire?” he asked.  He would not have, but since she had breached the subject, it seemed safe.  “We saw the burned places in the forest; it distressed Legolas to see the scar.”

“I was,” she said.  “There was some wicked magic in the flame; these burns should have healed faster and more completely.  Now” – She shrugged.  “I know not.  I should not complain; I am lucky to have escaped with my life, but I cannot help wishing.”

“None could blame you for it,” Gimli said.  He still knew little of elves, but surely they, too, would forgive her a lack of optimism.  “But I am glad of your life as well, and for the opportunity to make your acquaintance.”

She smiled at him.  “I thank you, Master Dwarf, and I am pleased to have met you as well.  We miss much, I think, in missing friendship with your people.  Oh!”  With that last astonishing statement, she broke off and pointed, and Gimli was lost, for Legolas had begun his run.

It was a kind of beauty Gimli would never have thought to look for even months ago, and even a kind he would not have expected to see in elves: something wild and unrestrained.  Legolas moved like an animal, or many, seeming to shift from form to form: he climbed the first tree like a wildcat, hands acting like feet as he raced up a vertical surface.  As soon as he was up the tree, he darted along the branches like a squirrel, bow out and firing arrows into targets Gimli could not see even as he leaped from tree to tree.  He seemed to slip once, and Gimli’s breath caught in his throat – but no, it had been deliberate, and like a sloth he hung upside down by his knees from a branch, shooting three more arrows into the side of a distant tree, before swinging himself back up and leaping into the next tree.  His dark skin and hair blended into the trees in the darkness, and Gimli could see him as a Silvan elf – see the side of his love that he had only ever glimpsed before.

“He nears the end,” Eleniel murmured, taut and focused beside Gimli, and Gimli knew not what to expect but he found himself tensing as well.  Three wide leaps, across spaces that he should not have been able to cross, shooting all the while – and then Legolas swung his bow over his shoulder in a smooth motion, freeing his hands, caught hold of a vine above a tree, and slid along it to the ground.  Barely had his feet touched the ground than his bow was once again in his hands, and three more arrows sank into a distant tree even as Legolas came, finally, to a graceful stop and bowed.

Gimli’s breath left his lungs in an explosive sigh – relief and amazement together.  And when the elves around him began to clap politely, he joined in with greater enthusiasm.

Legolas was smiling out, but Gimli knew that the smile was all for him.  That had been one of the most beautiful things he had seen, and he was actually rising to go to Legolas – caring not about whatever rules of propriety might exist at such events – when from a distance he saw Legolas stiffen, even as Eleniel froze beside him.  The noise level lowered as a few other elves stopped clapping or talking as well.

Something must have happened that he had not heard, and even as Gimli turned to Eleniel to demand an answer, a clear voice rose above the chatter, icy cold.

“Repeat that.”

Immediately, the entire forest clearing went dead silent. Beside Gimli, Eleniel’s look of horror had turned into a smile.  “What” – Gimli began to whisper, but she just shook her head and indicated that he should look.

About midway between Gimli and Legolas, Laerwen had moved to stand over where a small knot of elves had been speaking among themselves.  Her body was held upright and tense, and though she held no weapon Gimli again had the feeling that she was a blade in elf form: sharp and graceful – and deadly.

“ _Repeat it_ ,” she said again, voice as cold as before.  “For I think I must have heard something incorrectly, and I wish to ensure that my ears do not deceive me.”

“My – my lady?” came an elf’s voice from the group.

Laerwen’s demeanor did not soften.  “For a moment,” she said, “I believed that I heard you insulting my brother, Calanon.  But surely that cannot be.”

Gimli bristled just at the words.  Someone insult Legolas?  After all that he had done – and on his return home, as well!  How dare they –

“I did not insult your brother,” spit someone else from the group – a different voice.  “I insulted that” – and he broke into something in the Silvan dialect, something that did not sound polite at all.

“Ah,” said Laerwen.  “But you see, I believe you have indeed insulted my brother.  And not even done him the courtesy of speaking in a language that he understands, thus denying him the opportunity to defend himself.”

“My lady!” came the same voice as earlier, now horrified.  “Surely, you cannot be saying” –

“What can I not be saying?” said Laerwen.  Her voice had gone quieter than before, but the clearing was dead silent, and every word resounded perfectly across the space.  “Be very careful how you answer this, Glandur.”

“You cannot be saying that you have accepted that – that _thing_ ,” spat the second elf, and oh, Gimli was certainly aware that they were talking about him, “into your family!  That you have _embraced_ the delusions of a weak-willed weasel, a traitor to our kind and our customs, and have apparently surrendered your own sanity as well!”

How dare they – how _dare_ they speak like this?  Oh, Gimli had not expected the elves all to love him, but to say such things about Legolas – He made to rise, to defend his own honor and that of his chosen, but Eleniel seized his arm with a surprisingly strong grip and shook her head.

“Enough,” Laerwen said.  Her voice rose slightly, but more for emphasis than any attempt to capture attention – every ear in the clearing was trained on her words.  “I have heard enough out of you – out of both of you.  You slander heroes of this age, warriors who were willing to sacrifice all they were for the hopes of all the free peoples of Middle-earth, whose courage and loyalty carried them through to the end of a quest that threatened more than their lives; who were able to look past prejudice to find friendship and faith that has been withheld from us for too long.  More than that, you insult members of my family.  A new age is beginning, Calanon, Glandur, and your views are not welcome at a celebration of it if you find naught to rejoice in.  You may leave us now.”

Silence fell.  Gimli was frozen in his seat, Eleniel’s hand still clasping his wrist, but he barely noticed it.  Legolas was taut, his expression a strange combination of anger and satisfaction, but Laerwen’s face remained unchanging, her posture upright as before.  She stared, and the group that she had confronted began to shuffle and disband.

One of the more vocal elves, though, turned to Thranduil – who had remained sitting in his throne, chin resting on his hand as though bored with the entire proceedings.  “Your Majesty?” he ventured.  “My – my king?”

Thranduil arched one graceful brow, and that was all.  “Did you not hear my daughter?” he said.  “You are excused.”

Gaping, the elves began to make their way out of the clearing, shooting looks back regularly as though expecting someone to tell them that they were mistaken, that they should make their way back.  When no one did, Gimli noticed, a few more elves stood up and walked out as well, evidently infuriated at the treatment of their friends – or that a dwarf should be prioritized over elves in their home.  Some shouted insults behind them as they left; others simply stalked away as haughtily as Gimli had ever been told elves could be; still others simply looked shocked.

Gimli himself was not far behind them.

After a few moments of disorganized confusion, in which Gimli could barely keep his own mouth closed, Thranduil gave the musicians an expectant look, and they began – after a short space of silence – to play again.  The show, it seemed, was over.

The pressure on Gimli’s arm changed; Eleniel pulling him to his feet with surprising strength even as she leaned against her own cane.  “Come,” she said.  “Legolas awaits.”

* * *

Legolas was rooted to the spot, staring after the small group of elves as they left.  Calanon’s and Glandur’s antics had not surprised him; their prejudices were well-known, but so many had gone with them!  Of course, Legolas had known of the feud between elves and dwarves, had feared his own father’s reaction to his news – but he supposed he had somehow imagined that with his father’s acceptance, all problems would be solved.

And now he found himself watching a group of dissenters as they departed the clearing, eyes locked on their backs because he did not dare to turn around and look at Gimli.

If Gimli was hurt, or upset?  Oh, Legolas knew that he had probably expected something like this, and moreover he knew that Gimli was better able to take insults than he himself was, but perhaps he simply pretended?  Perhaps he would act to Legolas as though he did not mind the insult, but privately resent him for leading him into such a situation –

“Legolas.”  Laerwen had appeared at his side.  “Relax.”

He gasped at her appearance – had not even noticed her approach.  “Laerwen!”  His hands sought something to worry and found one another, fingers tangling.  “Laerwen, thank you; I” –

“Hush,” she said.  “It is nothing I would not gladly do for my brother.”

Something in her tone caught his attention.  “Your brother,” he repeated.  “Laerwen – _which_ brother?”

Her eyes twinkled, and she did not answer.  “Turn around, Legolas,” she said.  “Your husband approaches.”

Gimli and Eleniel were indeed making their way through the crowd to Legolas’s side.  Legolas found himself scanning Gimli’s face, desperately trying to make out the extent of his displeasure – only his expression, usually so clear, seemed so unreadable to Legolas now, and his stomach tightened even as his hands continued to wring one another –

Eleniel twitched towards him as though to take his hands, but Gimli reached them first. “Legolas, relax,” he said, even as Laerwen had.  “I am well.”

Legolas reached to trace around Gimli’s forehead and eyes, trying to detect any hint of a frown.  “Truly?” he said.  “Gimli, I am so sorry” –

“Hush,” Gimli said.  “You are not responsible for what your people think.  Indeed, I was surprised it took so long for any to voice their objections.”  He turned, hands still in Legolas’s, to smile at Laerwen.  “Though having seen what became of those who did, I am surprised no longer.  I thank you, my lady, for your defense of Legolas and of me.”

Laerwen bowed.  “There is no need for thanks.  I cannot censor the views of other elves – they are free to speak as they will at other times – but I will not hear my family maligned in my presence, particularly not after all they have done for the world.  But I must speak to my father now.  I leave you to one another.”

Legolas’s heart swelled as she walked away, but he could not quite shake the gnawing in his insides.  “Gimli, I” –

“Legolas.”  This time it was Eleniel who interrupted him, putting a reassuring hand on his shoulder.  “Those who feel the way they do have departed – the majority of us are either glad or at least accepting.  It is enough to make me wonder if the feud between our races is built mostly on the opinions of the few.”

“You think so?” Legolas was not certain what he thought – certainly his own opinion of dwarves had not ever been particularly low; he had only known that they were not his friends.  Some, like his father, had personal reason to dislike them – and yet even his father had been able to put aside that dislike to welcome Gimli as Legolas’s beloved.  “All the same, it shames me to have brought you” –

“I am fine,” said Gimli again.  “No harm has been done, and in truth I hardly noticed their insults, so amazed was I at watching your demonstration.”  His eyes sparkled in a familiar way, and Legolas’s attention was abruptly drawn away from his worries.  “Such beauty I had never thought to find in archery; though I have no desire to take it up myself, I am filled with further appreciation for your skills.”

“Your skills – and your bow!”  And Eleniel’s hand drifted from Legolas’s shoulder down to where he had slung his bow, fingers seeming magnetized to the curve of the wood; unable to restrain a laugh, he shrugged it off and passed to her.  “Whence came this bow, Legolas?  It is beautiful!”  She lifted it and aimed, but nocked no arrow and did not draw; he saw her wince at the pull of her shoulder.

He did not acknowledge that.  “It was given to me in Lothlorien, by the Lady Galadriel herself.  It was far from the worthiest gift given at that meeting, but” –

“Far from the worthiest,” breathed Eleniel.  “The other gifts must have been worthy indeed, to outstrip this in value!”

Legolas opened his mouth to tell her of Gimli’s, but Gimli tugged on his hand and shook his head.  Legolas supposed that he might have liked to keep such a thing private himself, if it had happened to him, but he wondered at Gimli’s sudden humility.  Or was it that he simply felt so strongly for the Lady that he did not wish to speak of her gift to others?  Legolas did not know, and perhaps it would have sparked envy, but he looked into Gimli’s eyes at that moment and remembered that they were bonded; that Gimli had chosen him, had tied their hearts and bodies together as surely as any two ever could be – remembered that, as they had all been telling him, there was no need to fear.

All of this raced through his mind in just a few seconds, but he let out his breath when it finally had, tension spilling from his muscles.  Gimli smiled, as though he knew what Legolas had just thought, and gave him a nod of approval.

“You may continue to admire that tonight,” Legolas said to Eleniel of the bow, “but any harm you cause it will be repeated on you tenfold.”  And even as she shot him a look of deep offense, he continued.  “And if you steal it from me, you will regret it even more.”  She knew he was jesting; he was at least comfortable enough with her to be sure of that, so he turned to Gimli.  “And now, my husband, will you favor me with a dance?”

* * *

 

Elvish dancing, they learned quickly, was not to Gimli’s taste.

It was not that dwarvish dancing did not also include a considerable amount of improvisation, but that improvisation was typically sparked by the ingenuity of the individual dancer and the beat of the music, rather than by some arbitrary “communication” between the multiple partners, or the forest around them.

Moreover, Legolas was far too tall.  They had both learned to lead in dance, and of the two of them Gimli proved least able to relinquish that position – but also least able to sustain it with a partner so much taller than he was.  After the third time their arms wrenched between them in an attempt at a spin for which neither was prepared, Gimli dropped Legolas’s hand and let out a breath.

“Legolas,” he said.  “This is not going to work.”

Legolas had been laughing almost since they had begun, mirth only increasing as their attempts proved more and more ridiculous.  “I think you are right,” he managed, leaning on Gimli’s shoulder, near breathless with laughter.  Gimli wondered if Legolas was drunk – he had not imbibed much, not compared to others of his kin, but he was somehow looser and less inhibited now than Gimli had seen him before.  Or perhaps it was simply that he was at home, and Gimli was seeing him for the first time among the people with whom he was most familiar.

Perhaps long ago, Gimli would have found his incessant mirth irritating, but now, particularly after all that he had seen of Legolas, it was merely endearing – and made the attempts at dancing more a source of entertainment than frustration.  “Come, you laughing fool,” he said, tugging Legolas away towards the table.  “Let us sit again.”

But after allowing himself to be led for a moment, Legolas suddenly tugged back.  “Nay, Gimli,” he said.  “Teach me a dwarvish dance instead!  Surely there is something that can be done with such music as we play!  And I would love to learn.”

Gimli hesitated.  He was aware of all the elves in the clearing, watching him, ready to judge him just as had those who had left.  But he was also aware that they had all been drinking, even more than Legolas had – and that Legolas was swaying close to him, his eyes gleaming in the starlight, his hair shedding leaves, his hands warm and eager in Gimli’s own, and Gimli found himself agreeing without even thinking about it.

So he let Legolas pull him back into the space with the dancers, then let go his hands and showed him a simple step, something that would work with the drumbeats being played.  There was little motion – the strange, ever-changing rhythms of these drums and the winding harmonies of the flutes would not allow for much dancing with structure – just a simple shifting rhythm of the legs and hips, bending of the knees, and rhythmic clapping.  Legolas watched Gimli carefully and then copied him: a step slower at first, but soon enough matching Gimli exactly in rhythm.

“This is not so difficult,” he said, and Gimli almost bristled in offense, before he realized Legolas was beaming.  “I think Eleniel could dance this, even with her cane.  What say you, Gimli?  Shall I fetch her?  I think she would like to learn!”

And so it began with Eleniel, and then one of her friends joined them as well, and somehow, before Gimli knew it, he was surrounded by a circle of elves, all clamoring to learn.  He stared at Legolas for a moment, but found that Legolas had somehow been swept up in the energy as well, begging along with the rest, dark eyes liquid, threatening to swallow Gimli whole.

He attempted to hedge, but an elf on the edge of the circle spoke up, eyes bright with challenge.  “If it is our abilities you doubt, Master Dwarf, I think you will find that we elves are quite capable of learning new dances – if you dare to show us.”

And ah, Gimli’s ancestors would have cried out against all of it, daring to spill dwarvish secrets to a crowd of elves – but he could not resist the challenge, and it was not such a damaging thing to teach, after all, and – and –

And Legolas had become, if possible, even more difficult to resist than he ever had been.

And so somehow Gimli found himself in the middle of a circle of elves, all dancing in the rhythm he had taught them, and perhaps that would not have been enough for what happened next, had the music not sped up at that exact moment.

Dwarves tended to take inspiration from freestyle from their own lives: individual experiences, observations of the world around them, their chosen crafts.  As a warrior, Gimli had always taken it from battle, adapting sequences with his axe to the sound of the music.  Now the drumbeats sped up, and he felt himself grounded in the earth, suddenly braced in a battle stance; he felt the space surrounding him, elves circling him just as other dwarves would be if he were to do a solo piece, and the music took him over: he stamped twice on the ground and began.

It was improvised, to be sure, but a typical battle-dance: he imagined himself surrounded by foes – like the Black Gate once more, but this time he was filled with the exhilaration of _knowing_ he would win; he lunged low and chopped high, foes disappearing as the dance took him, and he simply let the music sing in his blood and _danced_.

When the song ended, he fell back, catching his breath, and realized that the elves around him were all clapping.

“That was wonderful, Master Dwarf!” said one elf.

“Can all dwarves dance like that?” asked another.

“Will you teach us those steps as well?”

But all of their voices tunneled around him as his eyes focused on Legolas.

Legolas was beaming at him, entire face seeming lit from within, eyes shining, and Gimli’s breath caught at the sight; without answering the other elves he reached out, and in the space of seconds Legolas was in his arms, both of them a bit breathless from the dancing, drunk on the music, and Legolas had a hand under Gimli’s chin, tipping his face up and leaning down.

It quickly became clear that this was to be no congratulatory peck: Legolas’s mouth pressed full and soft and long against his.  Gimli remembered the elves surrounding them and held loosely in case Legolas would pull back – but no.  His arms tightened – the one hand on Gimli’s face, the other pressing against his shoulder blade; practically bending Gimli backwards in his ardor; kissing him until Gimli forgot the other elves around him once more.

Legolas finally pulled back, pressing his forehead against Gimli’s and smiling into his face.  His lips were still parted, his breath coming in cool puffs against Gimli’s own mouth.  “Well done, husband,” he said quietly, and the endearment was still new enough that it _did_ things to Gimli: stomach-knotting, blood-heating things.  He could hear laughter around them, the other elves dispersing at the realization that there would be no more dwarvish dancing, but he could not care for anything beyond his want.  One of his hands had come to cup the back of Legolas’s neck; he tugged Legolas’s head down again to seal their mouths together again.

Legolas was the one to pull back once more, leaning their upper bodies apart but keeping the contact between them, his hands around Gimli’s waist.  “I should not take up your time so, not when you have so many dance lessons to teach.”  He grinned.

“Were you” – Gimli stared.  “Were you _jealous_?”

“Was I?” Legolas laughed, and swayed forward to whisper in Gimli’s ear.  “Do you know, I have no idea.”

Gimli stared at him.  “Are you drunk?”

“Only on you.”  Legolas kissed him again, shallowly, and then pulled back.  “Shall we dance once more?”  His hips moved against Gimli in a way that suggested an entirely different sort of dancing.

Well.  Two could tease as well as one.  “What kind of dance are you suggesting?” Gimli paused, before trying the endearment out himself.  “Husband.”

Legolas made a startled sound at the word, and Gimli watched in amazement as his cheeks flushed darker and his eyes gleamed, his lips curving up into a soft awed smile.  And it never failed to affect Gimli, either: seeing such love and devotion shine in Legolas’s eyes.  He found his own hips twitching as he tightened his arms, meaning to pull Legolas closer –

And then, slippery as an oiled sword-hilt, Legolas had darted backwards out of his grasp, letting cool air rush between them where their bodies had been pressed together.  Gimli became aware of an uncomfortable problem: one which led him to desire nothing more than take Legolas back to bed – or possibly just to a slightly less populated place in the forest – and ravish him completely.  Failing that as an option, he at least needed to sit down, and make some – adjustments.

“So you do not want to dance with me again?” Legolas asked, when Gimli made to approach the table once more, with a mock-pout that said he knew exactly what he was doing.

Westron was not safe, not even in whispers with all these elves about, so Gimli chose to mutter instead in Khuzdul what he wanted to do to Legolas right now.

Legolas’s eyes darkened.  “Is that a promise?”

Gimli spluttered. “What? You do not even speak Khuzdul!  Or, you said you did not” –

Legolas grinned, eyes dancing.  “I do not,” he confirmed.  “But I know your voice, and I know that look in your eyes.”  Once more he paced towards Gimli: slow and deliberate, like a hunter stalking prey, and brought their faces closer together – but when Gimli reached up to seal the distance, Legolas was gone once more, darting backwards even as Gimli lunged to catch him, laughing and beaming and sparkling, more beautiful than anything else in this forest, more beautiful than anything Gimli had ever seen in his life.

Indulgent, breathless and laughing himself, Gimli gave chase.

* * *

They did not stay at the feast much longer after that, but long enough that both had drunk considerably more wine than perhaps they had intended to.  Legolas could not say how much of his intoxication was due to the wine and how much of it was due to emotion: his joy in taking Gimli to his home; his relief that Gimli had not held the incident of Calanon and Glandur against him or his people in general; his pride in showing off his husband to everyone in Mirkwood.  But regardless of the cause, he knew that he made his way back to his quarters on stumbling feet, leaning heavily on Gimli beside him.  It might have been embarrassing if Gimli were not leaning on him just as much.

“This way,” he breathed, lurching around a corner that he was fairly certain led back to his chambers.  “No” – He tugged on Gimli’s shoulder as Gimli took a large step that sent him swaying dangerously away from Legolas – “Hold on; if we lose our footing, I know not if we will regain it.”

“I lost my footing to you long ago,” said Gimli, his voice sounding half asleep, but managing to favor Legolas with a smile that made the tips of his ears heat up.

“Flatterer.”  Legolas tugged him further down the hall, once almost losing his balance and leaning on Gimli’s head to keep himself upright.  Gimli frowned and batted at him, but missed, nearly toppling over himself.

They nearly fell into Legolas’s quarters, laughing breathlessly as the door slammed behind them.  Legolas had made a fire earlier, and the flames had burned into embers, but the room was still warm.  Gimli went to stoke the fire up again, but Legolas pulled him back.  He had no patience for the time that that would require – and there would be no chill beneath the covers.

“Let me warm you instead, my love,” he said, and tumbled them both onto the bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, after that monster-chapter, a couple of things.
> 
> 1) THRANDUIL IS A DAD HE CAN MAKE DAD JOKES OKAY
> 
> 2) I stole the idea of an "archery run" from one of scarletjedi's stories.
> 
> 3) I've decided that Laerwen is kind of the attack dog of the family. Legolas is too anxious and Thranduil too reserved, but she has _no qualms_ about ruthlessly going after anyone who attacks her family. I was feeling very iffy on the scene where she kicks Calanon and Glandur out of the feast, though, because it's true that she has power that they don't, being the princess. But my justification for this goes as follows: the Woodland Realm doesn't actually censor different viewpoints, but people are perfectly within their rights to have troublemakers removed from events, right? So I decided that she's fine doing this, and not abusing her power.
> 
> My reasoning for everything going so well here thus far is that Legolas is pretty high in rank here, being that he's the child of the king. So the biggie was getting his father's approval, and once he had that, other people generally fell into step. And my justification for Thranduil's actions was given in previous chapters, and a little more will be coming next chapter.
> 
> I think that's about it. (I love these sections; they help relieve a lot of my fretting about people misunderstanding. Which is probably counterproductive in terms of real-life writing which is supposed to stand on its own, but whatever.)


	29. Chapter 29

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Legolas and Gimli each have an important conversation.

Legolas rose later than was his wont the next day, a combination of the wine from the feast and the attentions of his bed-partner keeping him abed past dawn.  Sleeping with Gimli, curled up together (and naked, more often than not), was such a new sensation – if one that he seemed unlikely to tire of – and even on days when he woke as early as ever, he found himself reluctant to move when Gimli had tucked himself so close.

For all that Legolas was up late, Gimli was still asleep when he woke, curled into the cocoon of Legolas’s limbs in a way he had found that made Legolas even less likely to move, for fear of disturbing him.  Obliging, Legolas threaded his fingers through Gimli’s hair and stroked circles against his scalp; Gimli made a grumbling contented noise, almost a purr, and curled closer in his sleep, and Legolas could not hold back a wide smile.  This dwarf – this beautiful, confident, loving creature – was _his_.  He wondered if he would ever get over that knowledge.

After a time, the smile faded away as less pleasing thoughts took over Legolas’s mind – but thoughts that he knew he needed to entertain.  He was home.  In his own bed, the bed in which he had slept for the greater part of his life.  In the palace in which he had lived for all of it until these last few months.  Yesterday, he had seen the family who had raised him, loved him, always done their best to understand and accept him.  He was at home, in the forest of his birth – all of it as familiar to him as his own mind.  And yet the most familiar part of it was the warm body lying in his arms, the love he had known only a few months.

He could not stay here.  That knowledge sank slowly in on him, churning at his stomach in a way that made his fingers tighten in Gimli’s hair, only loosening when Gimli stirred and threatened to wake.  It was more than the changes wrought on his home, more than his love in his arms, more even than the still-sharp yearning for the sea and that ultimate home whose call he had never expected to hear – it was some combination of all three, some change wrought deep in the very foundations of his soul, that made him realize that this was not his home anymore.

His mind flitted back to some thoughts that had teased at him during their time in Gondor, after the battles with Sauron’s forces.  He knew that he would return to Minas Tirith ere too long, along with Gimli: both of them had pledged their help to Aragorn in rebuilding the White City, and he knew that they had done it in many ways for the same reason – that home was not enough, that their hearts had expanded to include more than just the place of their birth, but that they knew not what to do next.

And he thought on what Gimli had told him, about desiring to bring more dwarves to the Glittering Caves, to build themselves a new home.  On some of his own thoughts in Minas Tirith – but even before that, in Ithilien –

Suddenly, he could no longer lie still; his fingers in Gimli’s hair were not enough to spend the energy that pulsed within him.  He rose, extracting himself carefully from their tangle of limbs, and paced across the room, picking up the nightshirt that had gone unused and putting it on, opening the door just a crack and glancing out into the halls – and it was then that he saw the note.

He was looking at it, thinking that of course he should have expected it, when he heard the low grumbling noises of Gimli waking up.  He turned back to the bed, and despite everything he could not hold back the fond smile that crept onto his face at the sight of sleepy dark eyes looking back at him from beneath a mass of wild hair.  Just as he could not resist slipping back into the bed for a thorough good morning kiss.

“And the same to you,” mumbled Gimli when they pulled apart, though Legolas did not think he had spoken.  He saw the gleam of humor in Gimli’s still-bleary eyes.  “I take it you are not suffering as I am, then?  Elves do not experience morning-afters?”

“Not as much as mortals, from what I hear.”  Legolas laid a hand on Gimli’s forehead.  “Are you well?  Does your head ache?”

“Nothing serious.”  Gimli batted his hand away and wrapped it in his own instead.  “Nothing a bath and morning tea will not cure. May such things be procured in the prince’s chambers?”

“They may, but” – Legolas hesitated.  “We do not have as leisurely a morning as I might have hoped.  My father has summoned me to speak with him ‘at my earliest convenience,’ and he will not wish to wait long.”

“Ah.”  Some of the haze was clearing from Gimli’s eyes.  “Last night did not come free, then?”

“Nay, but it is to be expected.”  Legolas watched Gimli’s face carefully.  “I do not expect him to retract his blessing, but he will wish to hear my story in full.  Last night was his gesture; today is the payment.  Fear not,” he added, before he could even attempt to gauge Gimli’s reaction, “he will demand nothing of me beyond my explanation.  Still, I would not like to keep him waiting.”

“Will he wish me there as well?”

Legolas shook his head.  “Had he desired your presence, he would have asked.  Nay, this meeting is for me alone.  Worry not for me; he is my father.  And for all that last night did not come free, it has done much to ease my fears.”

“And if your fears are eased, then mine are as well.”  Gimli pulled him in for one more kiss, long and slow enough to leave Legolas’s head spinning when he was finally released.  “Well then.  Let us bathe and breakfast, my love, that you may answer your father’s summons in haste.”

* * *

The door to his father’s study was open just a crack, the door almost closed, but the latch not quite clicked into place, as it was when he was awaiting visitors but did not want to give off the appearance of availability.  Legolas knocked softly, then pushed the door open.

“Adar?” he said.  “You wished to see me?”

“Of course I wished to see you.”  His father waved him inside, and then motioned for him to close the door.  Legolas did, waiting for the click that signified it was latched into place.  Now the room was – if not completely soundproof – at least significantly muffled for curious listening ears.  “You have been away for months, and returned wedded to a dwarf.  I would hear your story, Legolas.”

Legolas nodded.  “And I would tell it, for it is long and in parts sad, and it heralds changes in me that are not easily wished away.”

“I have seen that.”  His father nodded.  “And you will note that I have accepted those changes, if not with the joy that I would have expected with your wedding.”

“Nay, but I thank you,” said Legolas, from the bottom of his heart.  “I had feared this return, and it relieves me not to be torn in two between my love and my kin.”

His father beckoned him to the chair that sat across from his own, the table between them, and the two glasses of wine that stood ready.  “I see and hear that you are torn enough already, my son.  Will you not tell me now all that has befallen you?”

“I will.”

And he told.

He told his father everything, beginning from the council in Rivendell and the following weeks, in which the Fellowship of the Ring had been formed.  He told him of their long journey: over Caradhras, through Moria, the weeks in Lothlorien.  He told him of the fear that Mithrandir had fallen, the Lady’s words and gifts to all of them (lingering, of course, on Gimli, and taking great pleasure in the way his father’s brows rose), her encouragement to him to open his heart.

He spoke of the long days on the river Anduin, and his voice cracked when he spoke of the breaking of their Fellowship and Boromir’s fall.  His father did not touch him, but he did not speak either as Legolas took a sip of wine to collect himself, and his face was not unsympathetic.

Legolas spoke further: of their long hunt through Rohan in search of two captured hobbits; of the beauty and mystery of Fangorn followed by the terror at Helm’s Deep.  Of the confrontation at Isengard, and the journey through the Paths of the Dead, and the gulls at Pelargir.

When he brought up that last, Thranduil’s eyes closed and his head dropped, and Legolas reached out to lay his hand gently on his father’s.  The hand beneath his turned over, and their fingers clenched.  For long moments, neither of them said a word.

“I would not have wished this for you, my son,” said Thranduil finally, quietly.  “I know this was a call you never expected to hear, and I am sorry that it descended upon you so unexpectedly.”

“I should have realized,” Legolas whispered through a contracting throat.  “The Lady warned me, and I should have understood – but I did not think.”

“No, you did not think – but why should you have?  I did not raise you on tales of Valinor; you knew only in theory that the gulls had the power to capture your soul.  Your mother and your sister did not sail out of desire, but out of necessity – Laerwen and I still feel no call to join them, and so we stay here, and we did not expect you to feel a call, either.  But now you tell me I would lose you anyway, likely before the end of a mortal lifespan” –

“I will stay until his life ends, Adar,” said Legolas.  “I am sorry, and it means no less to my love for our family – but he is the power that keeps me here.”

“I know.”  His father’s face was weary, resigned, but a note of tired humor played in his eyes.  “And so I suppose I find myself in the position of being grateful for a dwarf.”

“Adar, you have seen him,” said Legolas.  “You have seen the greatness of his spirit – you know that he is not just ‘a dwarf.’  In fact, if all dwarves are like him, then it seems to me a shame that we elves are not better friends with their race, for I think we miss much.”

“I will not go so far,” said his father dryly.  “But it seems we have arrived on this topic, and, Legolas – little as I may like it, I would understand.  Tell me of him.  Tell me of Gimli.”

And so Legolas told.

He told him of the days of distrust and suspicion in Rivendell: of their botched attempts to communicate, of his own shame.  He did not omit his own failures – it was not information that his father could glean from him in the same way the Lady could, but it was also not information that he could comfortably leave out.  He told of his distance from his other companions, until their seeming loss in Moria and Galadriel’s words to him in Lothlorien.

And then he told him of their friendship.  Of that first conversation in the wood, and those that followed after.  Of the way Gimli had become his mouthpiece, his guidance, his anchor.  Of his own fear of losing Gimli at Helm’s Deep, and his realization of his own heart.  Of Gimli’s kindness, his strength, his support when Legolas needed him, the humility in that he could reach out to Legolas as well.

“He rode into the final battle with me,” he said finally.  “Ready to die by my side or survive and cleave together – and we had not spoken our hearts then, but I think there was part of each of us that knew the other.  We have not been parted since the beginning, and although I think we must part soon, I would have that be as little as possible.  We wed on the journey back, through Fangorn and towards Mirkwood, for I wished to return home with him as my husband.”  He looked up at last, locked his eyes on his father’s, and tried to send the intensity of his conviction between them.  “What say you now?”

Thranduil sighed.  “I say that it still saddens me, to see your life and your heart so changed – so tied to mortal paths.  It will bring you grief, if it does not shorten your own life, but – I also see that I have no choice but to accept it, and I would not lose you a moment sooner than I must, to death or to the sea.”  He poured himself another glass of wine, unaffected by the night’s revels, and took a long sip before continuing.  “So what are your plans now?”

“I will return to Erebor with Gimli,” said Legolas, keeping his voice steady though he knew his father could hear the increase in his heart rate at the very thought.  “I will meet his family and hope for a welcome as warm as we have found here, and we will ask for their blessing to be wed in the way of their kind.  And then – I know not.”  And now, faced with the need to explain, he rashly spoke the thoughts that he had kept in his heart for months now, had begun to ponder more seriously only this morning.  “I have made promises to Aragorn – King Elessar, I should say – promises to restore the gardens in Minas Tirith.  And after that, I know not if this will be permitted, but – there is a land, on the edges of Gondor. Ithilien.  It has been corrupted and tainted by proximity to Mordor, but it is beautiful: forest and grassland and river.  It calls out for healing, and I think that some of our kin would be pleased to go with me, if Aragorn permits, and if you permit.  It” – And now he heard his voice become almost pleading – “It calls to me, Adar, the way I had feared no land in Middle-earth yet would, and I think that living and working there might ease some of the time that I have yet on these shores.”

His father nodded slowly.  “I will think on this proposal, if you will ask Elessar if he will grant it.  But may I ask you a favor as well?”

“Of course,” said Legolas.

“Come home,” said his father.  “If only for a short while, after you have gone to Erebor, before you return to Gondor to begin your work.  Come home, and be with your family – let us learn to savor, as mortals do, the little time with you that we yet have.”

And he sounded in that moment so little like a king – so much like a tired, hopeful father – and he was trying his best, and Legolas could see it, and what else was there to say but yes?

“I will,” he said.  “I promise.”

* * *

When Legolas had left to speak to his father, Gimli remained in his quarters, perched on the edge of the bed.  The palace and the realm were ostensibly open to his wanderings, but he did not know how much he trusted his welcome here, and did not trust the other elves to all abide by certain decrees.  So he chose to remain behind instead, packing and repacking his gear into his bags.

After a few moments of this, though, there was a gentle tap at the door, and Eleniel’s voice.  “Gimli?”

He wondered at her use of his name so informally, but of course he knew that she had heard him; there was no pretending not to be here.  If he was to endure another warning conversation, so be it.  “Come in,” he called, sitting back.  At least this time he was wearing his armor.

She opened the door and limped inside, still leaning on that cane she had been using.  Gimli noted how plain and flimsy it was; he wondered if it was out of her own desire to pretend it was temporary, the elves’ lack of time and materials, or simply their lack of knowledge about true craftsmanship.  A few months ago, he would have been inclined to assume the latter – but now it could be any of those reasons.  Regardless, he found his fingers itching to craft something finer and more functional.

“I heard that Legolas had gone to speak to his father,” she said, coming to sit on the edge of the bed without waiting for his invitation, “so I wished to come and speak to you while I knew you were alone.”

Gimli sighed.  So it was to be another talk.  “If you wish to tell me not to hurt Legolas, or you will hurt me in return,” he said, “the princess already spoke to me.  And I mean no offense to you, Eleniel” – if she could use his name, he could return the favor – “but I find it hard to imagine one more frightening than her.”

“Nay,” she said, and her voice and face were serious.  “I wished to talk to you about Legolas, that is true, but it is your own well-being that concerns me, Master Dwarf.”

He blinked at her.  Opened his mouth to speak, and found no words.

“Before I say anything,” she said, “I wish you to know that I love Legolas.  He is as kin to me, dear as a brother, if my feelings towards him are a bit different from those of the princess.  And nothing I say to you now detracts from or belies that love in any way.  But” – She hesitated.  “But he is not always easy to love, and I wished you to know that you are not alone.”

Gimli bristled, almost instinctively.  He did not know why he had become so immediately protective of Legolas, but he had, and now – even though he knew Eleniel to be one of his dearest friends – he could not help wanting to strike.

Eleniel seemed to see this.  “Legolas is the kindest, most courageous person I know,” she hurried on, “but he worries.  He worries about pleasing others, about what may happen if he does not.  He worries in a way that is sometimes uncontrollable, and he needs support from his loved ones.  I am always happy to give that support, and I see already that you are, as well – but it can be draining, and if you ever find yourself tired or impatient, you should know that it is normal.”

Gimli wished almost to deny it.  Supporting Legolas had never been exhausting for him; loving him came more easily than anything else in Gimli’s life.  He had opened his mouth to argue that perhaps elves were different from dwarves, that dwarves were made to fit perfectly as the other half of another, and nothing from them could ever be too much – and then he remembered that moment in Fangorn, watching Legolas’s own emotions seem to tear him apart; that feeling of being helpless in the face of something more powerful, how much he had desired to have someone help him understand –

“Do you know” – It came out in a whisper.  “When he is overwhelmed, or fearful, and his body seems to – he seems to lose control of it?  And he cannot breathe, and he trembles, and” – _And it is frightening_ , he did not finish.

Eleniel nodded.  “Then you have seen an attack,” she said.  “I would have told you of them if you had not.  Elves – our spirits influence our bodies more directly than do those of mortals.  This is why we do not suffer from physical illness, or succumb to ailments such as hunger or exhaustion so quickly.  But it also means that wounds to our spirits, or troubles in our hearts, can affect our bodies more strongly.  If Legolas is too disquieted, and is unable to calm his thoughts, it will affect his body.  It will always pass, but it can be frightening to witness.  It makes one feel helpless.”  She gave him a piercing stare, as though reading his thoughts, and he only nodded.

“I” – He flushed; it felt too personal to say: holding Legolas in his arms, fearing he would shudder apart, trying to keep him together.  “I tried to calm him.”

She nodded.  “Sometimes that is successful, though not always.  The most important thing is to be there for him afterwards.  But it can be exhausting for you, as well.  And that is the reason I have come.”

“To tell me about this?”

“In part.  But also to tell you that it is not shameful to look for support for yourself.  Loving Legolas is deeply rewarding: he has such a gentle, joyful spirit when you can coax it out of him.  But it can also be exhausting, and there is no shame in looking for support for yourself at times when it is difficult.  And I wished” – She hesitated.  “I wished to offer my own support, if you ever need it.”

All Gimli could say was, “Why?”

“Because,” she said, stern now, “I do not know how well other dwarves will do it for you.  Merely because I say this to you does not mean that I will accept having Legolas slandered or shamed by the other dwarves he may wish to befriend.  And although I ask you to care for yourself as well as for Legolas, I cannot support you telling tales about my dearest friend to those who may not care well for his heart.”

Once more, it crossed Gimli’s mind to be offended.  But once more she was right.  Gimli knew what lies were spread about elves among the dwarves of Erebor, even as he knew that lies were spread among these elves about dwarves.  And he knew that Eleniel might not be right about dwarves in general, but that his friends – however strong their love for him – would not be inclined to be kind to Legolas.  Would read Gimli’s problems, if he had any, as complaints.  Would believe, as Gimli had thought Eleniel to be suggesting, that the match was wrongly made, for all that Gimli knew it was perfect.

“You may well be right,” he said.  “But I hope that you trust me enough to know that I would not do anything to hurt Legolas.  It may happen at times by mistake, for such things happen with people so different as we, but I beg you to believe me: I would do nothing intentionally to harm him.”

“I believe you,” she said.  “Truly, I do.  And I think that the king and the princess believe you as well, or they would not have given you only a warning.”  She smiled, and though it only revealed the severity of her wounds, he thought there was a kind of beauty in it all the same.  “I am grateful for you, Gimli, and the happiness you bring to my friend.  And I hope that he brings you the same happiness, and that you take care of yourself in the ways that you must, so that you can extend that happiness for as long as possible.”

“I will,” Gimli promised.  “And – I thank you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because being someone's rock is _hard,_ and I thought Gimli deserved a little recognition from someone who gets it.


	30. Chapter 30

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Legolas and Gimli depart; Thranduil is still a dad.

The next day, they set out once more.  Gimli’s family would know that he was on the way home, and he could not delay too long in returning to them.   Though the thought still made his stomach clench, Legolas insisted on accompanying him.  Gimli had comported himself admirably here, after all, winning approval from all of Legolas’s family and friends – if perhaps not his entire people – and despite the sinking feeling that it would not all go so smoothly for him, Legolas was determined at least to make the attempt.

“You will not be dissuaded?” asked his father one last time.  “I mislike the thought of you alone under the mountain” –

To Legolas’s surprise, it was Laerwen who interceded.  “Adar, the dwarves of Erebor are honorable, as a rule.  Legolas will not be in danger there.”

“Besides that, I will not be alone,” added Legolas as Gimli strode down the hall towards them, slinging his pack over his shoulders.  Legolas smiled at him.  “All is ready for our departure?”

“All but you.”  Gimli touched his arm, and then turned to give formal bows to Thranduil and Laerwen.  “I thank you for your welcome, Elvenking, your highness.  It has been a pleasure to experience the hospitality of the forest of Mirkwood in the way it was meant to be.”

His eyes twinkled at that, and to Legolas’s surprise, Laerwen laughed.  “Indeed,” she said.  “I am glad that you have enjoyed what your kin were denied.  And I’ll hear no more of this ‘your highness’ from you.  We are kin now, Gimli; I am Laerwen to thee and nothing more.”  She held out a hand.

Slowly, Gimli reached out and took it, and Legolas could feel his surprised pleasure.  “I thank thee, Laerwen,” he said.  “I am honored by the warmth of thy welcome, and I look forward to the continuation of our acquaintance.”

Legolas could not force down the beaming smile that he felt stretching his face at that.  He had known that Gimli could charm anyone; the Lady’s gift was proof of that – but he had not expected that Gimli would worm his way so thoroughly into his sister’s heart as he had into Legolas’s.  His father’s face was not quite so warm, but Legolas knew that was only a matter of time.  Though he still feared to see Gimli’s family, this did give him hope.

His father cleared his throat.  “On the topic of ‘Mirkwood’s’ hospitality,” he said.  “With the expulsion of the Shadow and the cleansing that even now goes on in our forest, I have decided that we should begin going by a new name.”

Laerwen was smiling; clearly she knew of this, but Legolas frowned. “Greenwood once more?” he asked.  Though he had personally no memory of those times, he knew that the forest had been called Greenwood before the Shadow grew too strong.

Now Thranduil was smiling: a small, tight smile that could almost be called a smirk.  “Nay,” he said.  “In keeping with the message of hope and new growth that comes to us with the felling of Sauron, I have decided to rechristen the forest _Eryn Lasgalen_.”

Legolas’s jaw dropped.  This was too much.  “Adar!” he exclaimed.  “You have taken this jest too far!”

Laerwen was snickering behind her hand; Legolas saw her make a valiant effort to calm herself when he glared at her, but quickly dissolve once more into laughter.

Gimli’s face, though it had been confused before, was beginning to look similarly amused.  “Is this a continuation of the pun from a few nights ago?” he asked.  “Or has he named the forest after you?”

“Both, if I am not mistaken,” Legolas groaned.

“You are not.”  His father smiled openly for a moment – a rare sight, which Legolas treasured despite his own mild irritation – but then the smile faded into a more serious expression.  “But this is more than my own entertainment, Legolas.  I spoke truly two nights ago: your return brings me the hope that so many of us thought had fled centuries ago.”  Now Legolas could feel himself blushing, and Gimli squeezed his arm.  “But the circumstances of your return bring me as much grief as joy, and though I know your time remaining here is far too short, I would have the forest here as a reminder of the joy and hope that you bring, while you are here and after you have departed these lands.”

Now Legolas could not speak for another reason entirely.  The pain in his father’s voice had stabbed him through the very heart, and Gimli’s intake of breath beside him indicated that it had done the same to him.  “Adar,” he said, but trailed off, uncertain of how to finish.

“I do not mean to grieve thee, Legolas,” said his father softly, laying a hand once more on his shoulder.  “Only to remind thee that thou art loved, and that thou hast a home here for as long as thou needest.”

Legolas could say nothing.  He had not done this in so long, but he found that the only real response was to fling himself into his father’s arms.

His father stiffened against him at first, but his arms came up very slowly and hesitantly to wrap around Legolas’s shoulders.  It was not the most natural or comfortable of embraces, but Legolas felt his father’s love in every uncertain pat of his hand on Legolas’s shoulder blade.

After a moment, the hands at Legolas’s back fell away and Legolas himself pulled back, wiping away his tears with the back of his hand.  To his shock, his father’s eyes were also a bit misty.

Once they had both collected themselves, Thranduil turned to Gimli.  “Care well for Legolas, son of Glóin,” he said.  “Though I cannot but regret this bond between the two of you, I cannot deny that it exists.  I only ask you to make the short years of your life as happy as possible.”

Legolas reached for Gimli, but Gimli stepped forward to face his father.  “Elvenking,” he said, his voice hoarse, “I cannot apologize for loving your son, nor can I find it in me to regret that he loves me in return.  But I thank you for your generosity in accepting our love, and I promise that you will never find any additional reason to rue it.”

“I will hold you to that promise,” said Legolas’s father, and even as Legolas watched in shock he held out a hand, even as Laerwen had before, and Gimli took it.

Legolas looked over at his sister in amazed gratitude and found her smiling back at him, eyes a bit teary as well.  “You are loved, Legolas,” she said – in explanation, he thought.  “We would not have you leave us, but even less would we have you spend your years with us in resentment and strife.”

“Thank you,” he could only whisper, his voice choked.  “Thank you, thank you” – and then Laerwen seized him in a tight embrace and held on for long moments.

When they separated, all four of them needed to take a moment to pull themselves together.  Then, finally, Legolas took a deep breath.

“We must depart now,” he said to Gimli.  They would have less daylight in which to travel if they stayed for too much longer.  But his next words he directed at his family.  “But I will return ere too long, and we will speak of what to do in the future.”

“We await thy return, Legolas,” said his father.  “And I wish thee a safe journey, and a joyful reunion with thy kin, Gimli son of Glóin.  Fare well, both of you.”

“Fare well,” Gimli said, still seeming stunned by his welcome; Legolas said, knowing that he would return soon – but knowing that this goodbye was more final than he would have imagined it scant months earlier.

Arod was waiting for them; they loaded him with their bags, mounted together, and departed for the mountain, and the next meeting that awaited them there.


	31. Chapter 31

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Legolas's arrival in Erebor is somewhat less auspicious.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a warning: these next couple of chapters are going to be pretty rough on Legolas. I have not let him off the hook just yet.

“Legolas,” Gimli said quietly, “are you well?”

They rode as ever mounted upon Arod, Legolas in front and Gimli behind.  His hands rested on Legolas’s waist, right in the spot between his rib cage and his hips, and he couldn’t help but notice the tension there: the muscles taut as though braced, the very shallow expanding and contracting of the space between his palms.

 “I am well enough,” came Legolas’s voice from in front of him, tightly controlled in the way it was when he was closest to losing his control.  “Do not fret.”

Gimli ran his hands gently up and down Legolas’s sides.  “Do you need to stop?” he asked.  “We can take a moment” –

Legolas stiffened against him.  “No,” he said, still in the hard, cold voice that was familiar from their earlier meetings.  Gimli took a breath to reply, but Legolas raised a hand to stop him.  “Gimli.  Please.”

Gimli let out the breath in a rush instead.  He heard the words that Legolas did not speak: _Please let it be.  Please let me try to hold myself together._   Instead of speaking, then, he pressed a kiss into Legolas’s shoulder blade and moved his arms forward to hug Legolas closer; this Legolas allowed.

Gimli pulled back slightly when they approached the gates of Erebor.  A dwarf and an elf riding upon the same horse would garner enough suspicion and gossip from the guards; he wished for no one to suspect their closer companionship until he could see his parents and tell them first.

Apparently, their arrival had been unexpected, enough so at least that no one beyond the usual guards was waiting for them.  Gimli noted this with some relief, but he didn’t know if that relief was on his own part or on Legolas’s, who was still tense in front of him.

They dismounted when they were close enough and approached the mountain on foot, Legolas leading Arod with much more concentration than Gimli knew he needed.  But it had always been for him to speak, and when they drew near enough he was glad to recognize Dwalur and Edvin at the gates.  Dwarves he knew not well, but at least he knew them, which would make it easier to gain entry even with his unusual companion.

“Halt!” called Dwalur when they were within speaking distance.  “Who goes there?”

“Dwalur, surely you recognize me!” said Gimli.  “It is I, Gimli son of Glóin, returned home after long months of travel and toil.  What welcome is this for a kinsman so long away?”  What a relief it was to be so loose and open with someone he barely knew, to relax into the easy camaraderie of dwarves without the tense politeness that had always guarded his tongue around men and elves.  And to see dwarves again, after so long among the other races – relief and kinship washed over him, and for almost the first time excitement overtook his apprehension.  He was home!  His family was so close, and his friends, and his King – newly crowned though he might be –

“Aye, you we know, but what of your companion?”  It was Edvin who spoke, and everything else came rushing back.  The dwarves were eyeing Legolas with a mixture of interest and suspicion; Legolas, Gimli saw, had pulled his cold dignity around himself, but he did not speak, for which Gimli was grateful.  Either he could not bring himself to say anything, or he knew that whatever words escaped him would not placate these dwarves.  It was all Gimli could do not to reach out and take his hand, but he restrained himself.

“This is Legolas of Mirk – of Lasgalen,” he corrected himself hastily, remembering their departure, “one of the Nine Walkers and my companion and friend.  I bring him with me as my guest.  Come now, Dwalur, Edvin,” when they hesitated, “surely you do not doubt my intentions!”

“No,” said Dwalur slowly, still looking at Legolas, “but perhaps it would be best if one of us came with you to your family, just to make sure” –

And Gimli couldn’t blame them – he himself might once have had such suspicions – but irritation burned hot in his head nonetheless.  “Nonsense!” he said.  “It would take longer than I have been away to forget my way home.  Or do you doubt my ability to protect myself?  Come!”  He laughed, softening it on purpose so they would let him go.  “If you wish to help, you could take our horse to the stable.”

“ _Our_ horse?” echoed Dwalur, eyebrows rising.

Gimli cursed internally.  “Aye,” he said aloud, “our horse.  He bore us across most of Rohan and Gondor, traversed dark caverns more bravely than any dwarf, and deserves great honor.  Can we leave him with you to be stabled properly, or shall we see to the task ourselves?”

Edvin looked at him, eyes wide, and made a quick hand signal in iglishmek: _Is this true? Is all well?_

 _Fine,_ Gimli signed back, and then spoke aloud, “All is well with us.  You need not fear for my well-being – or my mental stability.  May I leave the horse with you, or must I go to the stables instead of directly to my home?”

Dwalur swallowed a few times; Gimli watched his throat bob, and then he spoke.  “Nay, you may leave the horse with us.  He will be well taken care of.”

Legolas spoke for the first time, then – a few whispered words into Arod’s ear.  Then he handed over the reins to Dwalur.  “He will go with you now,” he said, and Gimli almost flinched at the coldness in his tone.  He knew now, of course, that it was for self-protection rather than out of true disdain, but he knew how his fellow dwarves would hear it, and found himself cringing.  Still, even as they shot him disbelieving glances, they stepped aside to let him pass, and Gimli led Legolas into the mountain.

As soon as they were out of sight of the guards, Legolas spoke.  “I am sorry, Gimli,” he said.  “I know how I must have sounded, and I do not mean” –

“I know,” he said, looking over at Legolas to see that the elf had sucked one lip almost entirely into his mouth and begun chewing on it.  “I know, Legolas, beloved, you need not be sorry.  I am grateful that you have come along with me.”

“Of course,” said Legolas, but he sounded uncertain.

Gimli led them along the shortest route to his parents’ home.  The paths wound deeper and deeper into the mountain, and as they moved on, dwarves began to gather, eyeing and whispering at this strange sight of an elf in their mountain, and Gimli’s return.  The crowds began to feel too much even for Gimli, who was well-accustomed to and comfortable with attention.  Concerned, he looked over at the elf by his side.

Legolas’s face remained impassive, but Gimli could see tiny shivers making their way through his entire body.  And when he looked over at Legolas’s hands, clenched at his sides, he saw the fingers and thumbs working overtime, rubbing against one another harder and faster as they moved along. No longer caring about the watching eyes, he reached over and took one hand in his own.

Legolas’s head snapped to the side to look at him, but his expression did not change.  His hand, though – if not for their experience as warriors, for the feats he had seen Legolas perform with his weapons, it would be too easy to look at him and think of him as a fine thing, a delicate piece of craft that should be cradled and prized.  But his fingers were tough and callused, pressing into the back of Gimli’s hand so hard that Gimli thought his bones, stone-strong though they might be, would be crushed.

“Easy,” he murmured, soft enough that none of the dwarves crowding around them would be able to hear.  “I would not have you break my hand before my father has his chance.”

He had meant to jest, but he could tell immediately that it was the wrong thing to say. Legolas made a startled sound, followed by a long, sharp inhale, the sound of lungs that could not take in enough air, and Gimli realized in alarm that it was the first breath he had heard from Legolas in long moments.

“Legolas!” he said, no longer caring about the watching, whispering dwarves.  They were close to his home now, but not close enough to make it with Legolas like this.  He turned so he was facing Legolas completely and gripped the elf’s other arm with his free hand.  “Legolas, have you been breathing?”

Legolas gasped for air and shook his head, his eyes darting about as though looking for an escape.  He tried to stumble backwards and Gimli kept a firm hold on his arms and guided him off the path – a few dwarves moved out of their way as Gimli pushed through – and to the nearest wall, grateful that this particular path was narrow, more an alley than a city street.  As soon as his back hit the wall, Legolas slid down to sit on the ground and Gimli knelt with him, still holding his arms.  He kept his focus on Legolas, but for a few seconds in which he turned to face the onlookers.  “What is your business here?” he barked.  “If your only intention is to stare like a foolish herd of cattle, you may leave us alone!”

There was some embarrassed murmuring, but Gimli had expended the last of the energy he was willing to focus on them.  He turned back around, reaching to stroke errant wisps of hair away from the sweat-damp forehead.  “Legolas,” he said.  “Breathe.”

“I am trying,” panted Legolas, though his breathing sounded no slower or calmer.  “Forgive me, Gimli – I do not mean – to be – so” –

“Hush,” murmured Gimli.  “Do not apologize.  Breathe with me.”  He took long, slow inhales and exhales as an example, continuing to stroke Legolas’s hair.

Legolas broke away from Gimli’s hold, drawing his knees up and slumping forward to rest his head between them.  Gimli moved his hands from Legolas’s hair to his shoulders, feeling them bob up and down as Legolas continued to struggle for air.  “Yes, good,” he said, massaging the rigid muscles and trying to keep his own worry from sounding in his voice.  For all that he had seen something like this before, for all Eleniel’s assurances days ago, it did not make it any less unsettling or alarming now.  “Stay there for as long as you must.  Keep breathing.”  Another slow inhale – more for himself than for Legolas, if truth be told.  But – was it his imagination, or was Legolas’s own breathing beginning to slow?

After another long moment, Legolas raised his head.  His breathing was still shallow, but less frantic than before, and his eyes focused on Gimli’s face.  “Is that better?” Gimli asked, keeping his hands on Legolas’s shoulders.

Legolas managed a nod.  “I am sorry,” he said again, voice too high and soft, more air than tone.  “I do not mean to be such trouble.”

Gimli moved his hands to Legolas’s face and pressed their foreheads together.  “You are no trouble,” he said.  And what an elf to be bringing home, one who worried that he was trouble, one who cared _this much_ about the impression he would make on a family of dwarves!  Not for the first time, he marveled that Legolas’s great heart had taken him so long to see.  “No trouble at all, Legolas, but my dearest friend and my one love.  For that alone, my family will accept you.  They will learn to love you as I do.  Do you believe me?”

“I am trying to,” Legolas said with a breathy laugh.  “But it is not so easy.  I am” –

“Do not apologize again,” Gimli ordered, and Legolas clamped his mouth shut.  “Can you stand?”

Legolas flushed and shook his head, his eyes fixing on Gimli’s chin.  “Not yet, I think.”

“That is fine,” Gimli soothed.  “Breathe with me a while longer, and we will try when you feel more prepared.”

He did not know what had become of the crowd around them, dared not look away from Legolas for fear of drawing his attention back to it and triggering a relapse.  But they had managed to make it most of the way to his home.  It would have been a relief, perhaps, if they had managed to get all the way there – he would have been able to get Legolas inside, away from curious eyes.  But as it was, their closeness to his family’s home proved more a curse – because a few moments later, Gimli heard loud footsteps and a familiar voice.

He wished he could have kept it from Legolas, but even in his current condition Legolas’s senses were sharper, and he stiffened, breath coming fast once more.

“None of that,” Gimli commanded him, wrenching his attention back to Legolas.  His eyes were wide and locked on something in the distance, and Gimli couldn’t help turning around to look.  He winced when he saw his father bearing down on them, his face the strangest mixture of thunderous and bewildered.

Legolas made a choked sound of panic, and Gimli turned back to him and forced his mind to stay there.  “It will be well,” he said, rubbing his thumbs in tiny circles against Legolas’s temples. Legolas’s hands rose from his lap to wrap around Gimli’s: long, slender fingers braceleting thick wrists.  “All will be well, I promise.  Calm yourself, love.  Calm.”  He resumed the exaggerated slow breathing of before: in, out, in, out –

“Gimli?”

His father’s voice was right behind him, but Gimli could not turn around to face him.  He regretted that he could not show the respect and love he owed to his father, that he could not throw himself into his arms immediately, but Legolas came first, and Gimli could not look away from him.  His father’s voice grew louder and more insistent.  “Gimli!  What are you doing?”

Gimli looked a question at Legolas, and Legolas nodded at him.  With a sigh, Gimli turned his head, keeping his hands where they were, and beheld his father’s face close up for the first time since Rivendell.

“Hello, Adad,” he said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope my use of panic attacks/visceral descriptions of anxiety hasn't become excessive in the story. I've really tried to cut them down, but they didn't want to go - so I'll explain instead.
> 
> First, I want to make clear that I don't think Legolas is weak or constantly falling apart. I think he held up really well during the Quest because he was in survival-mode - typically, when things become really necessary, we find a way to do them, no matter what kinds of barriers are in our way. It was necessary - for the sake of the world, even - for Legolas to remain relatively composed, so he made it happen.
> 
> But that took a toll on him, physically and emotionally, and now he's in a position of extraordinary vulnerability. He's tired, suffering from the sea-longing, and in love - all these new and vulnerable emotions that he's never experienced before, on top of things that would be hard and scary anyway (see marchingjaybird's "A Mountain Keeps an Echo"), and he's reacting.
> 
> I also want to make it clear that I don't think of anxiety as a defect of character or a flaw to be fixed. Just because Legolas has found someone who's a really solid emotional rock for him doesn't mean that he stops feeling the things that he would be feeling anyway. This story isn't going to end with Legolas being miraculously "healed," because that's not how anxiety works. It's just a thing that exists. However, he's pretty hard on himself about it because I don't think that many people in Middle-earth feel the way I (and we) do about it. Just given the attitude people tend to have in the books, it doesn't strike me as an environment where anxiety would be welcomed. So Legolas has his own safe place, his safe people, and otherwise has learned to function in survival mode. Which brings us full circle, and now I will end this absurdly long and self-justifying note.


	32. Chapter 32

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Legolas continues to have a really rough day. But there are some good parts.
> 
> (Those exclusively involve Gimli.)

This was not how Legolas had wanted to come to Erebor.

He stared at his knees, not so far below his eyes in the low chair Gimli had propped him in, calmer than before almost by default.  Panicking was exhausting, and he no longer had the energy for it, though he kept his arms wrapped tightly around his middle in an effort to hold himself together, and to make the slight tremors in his limbs less noticeable.

When his legs had regained the ability to support his weight, Gimli had guided him into his home, pressed him into the chair and a cup of water into his hand, and disappeared with his parents into a separate room.  Legolas could not understand the words they were speaking, but he could hear all of it: the way Gimli’s voice rose defensively and his parents’ lowered in alternating anger and concern.  It was not too difficult to fill in the words he did not know.

Gimli’s voice rose suddenly and angrily, and then the door between the chambers swung open and slammed against the wall as he stormed out.  His eyes found Legolas’s, and Legolas’s stomach shivered and clenched once more at the sight: Gimli’s face was thunderous, his body trembling with the same rage that Legolas had seen in it their first meeting.

Only now he did not fear it.  There were other things to fear.

“What is the matter, Gimli?” he asked, rising from the chair onto finally-steady legs and taking Gimli’s hands.  “What may I do” –

“My parents are being fools,” he grumbled.  “Take no thought for it, love.  They do not understand.”

“I would do what I can to make them understand,” said Legolas earnestly, although panic flared to life again at the thought.  “You spoke for yourself to my father and my sister, Gimli.  I would do the same for you.”

Gimli’s parents were entering the room now, and they both stiffened at the sight of Legolas’s hands in Gimli’s.  For all Legolas’s best intentions, the words froze in his throat and he took a quick, stuttering breath.

“Legolas” – began Gimli, but Legolas worked all the determination he had into the look he gave Gimli in answer, and Gimli sighed in defeat.  “Legolas, may I present to you my parents: my father, Glóin, and my mother, Geira.”  He indicated them in turn: Glóin Legolas recognized, but he had not seen Gimli’s mother before today, and he did his best to memorize her face.

Their stares did not give him confidence, but after a moment he mastered himself.  _You have faced worse_ , he reminded his quickening breath, and forced himself to inhale deeply, close his eyes, and then look down to meet Glóin’s eyes, then Geira’s.

“I – Lord Glóin, Lady Geira,” he began – they were lords, right? Gimli had said something about that? – but his voice sounded wrong, too stiff.  What was it dwarves did?  Ah, yes – He bowed before them, releasing one of Gimli’s hands, and reminded himself of the words he was to say.  “I am Legolas, son of Thranduil, at your service.”  Those came out well enough, and he straightened up and forced himself to continue.  “I am certain you must have some misgivings about” – He flailed.  He had not practiced this – and in the end he just waved his free hand at where his other was joined with Gimli’s, in indication of all that entailed – “but if I can – I would not have us at odds,” he burst out finally.  “Tell me if I may ease any of your fears.”

He stopped talking, only realizing how tightly he was clutching Gimli’s hand when Gimli flexed his fingers – feeling himself flush, Legolas loosened his grip, but Gimli kept hold of him when he would have let go entirely, keeping himself planted as an oak at Legolas’s side and meeting his parents’ questioning stares.

Once again, he remembered his first meeting with Gimli; then he had felt small in a way that belied his frame, and he felt it again now, as though these dwarves, two-thirds his height, towered over him.  He felt himself hardening, closing off – but Gimli’s hand was in his, and he reminded himself that he could not, that he was safe, for all he did not feel it, that Gimli would never let him be threatened –

He swallowed hard and renewed his grip on Gimli’s hand, looking at his parents and imagining that some of Gimli’s strength was flowing into him.  But Glóin and Geira did not speak, and continued not to speak, and Legolas felt his throat growing tighter and tighter until –

“Nothing,” grunted Glóin.  “If you are truly my son’s one love, as he assures me you are, then there will be no turning you aside.  Be welcome in our home, son of Thranduil.”  But his face twisted as he said the last sentence, and Legolas knew that that was not all – but was all, apparently, that Glóin was willing to say now.

Gimli flexed his hand once again within Legolas’s, and Legolas realized that he was once again crushing it in his grip.  But this time, instead of waiting for him to relax, Gimli returned some of the pressure.  “If that’s all, then, we will be going,” he said.  “I could use a bath, and I would show Legolas the chambers where we will be sleeping.”  He gave his parents a look, as though daring them to question him.

But they did not.  Instead, they merely nodded, and let Gimli lead Legolas away.

“Your parents dislike me,” Legolas said softly when they were out of earshot, away up a flight of stairs.  Gimli led him to his own chambers, a living space connected to his parents but separate for him alone, and the relief when the door closed behind them was like something Legolas had never thought he would feel when surrounded by this much stone.

Gimli sighed, shoulders slumping.  “They will come around.  You know my father has little love for yours, and you” – He glanced at Legolas apologetically – “You did not make the greatest of impressions on him in Rivendell.”

Legolas could not argue that.  He had always made terrible first impressions – it was only thanks to the patience and goodness of others that he had been able to make second ones, or third ones, or more.  “I am sorry,” he said helplessly.  “I wish I had your gift for communication, Gimli.  You were able so easily to win my father and sister over to you, and I” –

“Hush,” said Gimli sternly.  “You may wish what you will, I certainly cannot stop you, but know that I would change nothing about you.  I love you as you are, your beauty and your strength and your kindness – and, yes, your inability to meet anyone new without stumbling over your own tongue.”  The last was nothing Legolas had never said to himself, but in Gimli’s voice, filled with humor and love, it did not feel so much an insult.  Gimli stroked his fingers over the back of Legolas’s hand.  “I regret nothing about the time we have known one another, even the time when we disliked one another, because all of it has brought us here.  I love _you_ , Legolas, and you need not change for me or anyone else.”

Unable to stop himself, Legolas released Gimli’s hand and bent to wrap his arms around him, instead, burying his face in Gimli’s hair for a moment and breathing in his comforting scent before tipping his head lower to kiss him.  “And your silver tongue speaks once more, my dearest friend,” he said.  “Though I must inform you that I have never disliked you.  In fact, my first impression of you was much more admiring, I think, than yours was of me.”

“Oh?” Gimli pulled away from him to lead them a few more steps and through another door.  This was clearly the bedroom, but Legolas had little time to admire it before Gimli had tugged him fully inside and tackled him sideways onto the bed, hooking his hands behind Legolas’s neck and smiling into his face.  “Pray tell.”

“I found you magnificent,” whispered Legolas.  The words came easily now that they were alone, now that all he had to do was remember, and feel.  “You seemed to me a statue, carved of gems and sunlight on stone.”  He punctuated the words with a kiss to Gimli’s cheek.  “I could not speak to you because I saw your strength, and your resolve, and it humbled me.”  Another kiss, to the other cheek.  “I saw in you power and grace, both in battlefields and courts, and I saw a greatness of spirit that left me breathless.”

“Breathless, hmm?” Gimli sounded rather short of breath himself, his hands now wandering under Legolas’s tunic to pull him closer.  “I like the sound of that.  And while I confess that my first impression was much less kind, I have since learned that I am not the only one of us with a silver tongue – when you gain the wherewithal to use it.”

The quip appeared fully formed in Legolas’s mind, and he wondered at first if he dared to use it – but he was learning, and such talk came more easily now than it had.  “Ah, but have we not found better uses for it than speech?”  He kissed Gimli again, this time on the mouth, and when he went to pull away, one of Gimli’s hands freed itself from his tunic to cup his neck and keep him there until both of them were gasping for air.

“Far better,” Gimli panted, breath puffing against Legolas’s cheek and neck.  His hands – clever as always – were working the fastenings of Legolas’s tunic; Legolas pushed his own into Gimli’s clothing in turn, still more hesitant than Gimli’s, but learning to be bold.  “Let us now put it to these uses, hmm?”

And perhaps this was not a wise choice, given all that had already passed, given that he had been in Gimli’s home for only moments – but he was tired, and worried, and drained, and Gimli’s touch turned the freezing cold in his blood to fire, warming his very soul.

“Yes,” he said, and soon enough he could not have conversed if he had wanted to, for he had forgotten all words but Gimli’s name.

* * *

Gimli dozed after, as was his tendency, but Legolas found himself too restless to sleep yet.  He was tired, certainly, limbs limp from the exhaustion of their arrival and the intensity of Gimli’s attentions, but he found that nervous energy still pulsed through his veins, and for all that Gimli had tried to relax him, he was unable to lie still.

He extracted himself carefully from where he was curled around Gimli, tucking a blanket where his body had been and smiling fondly as Gimli nestled into its warmth.  He found his crumpled clothing on the floor and put it back on, finger-combing his hair as best he could.  He did not plan on leaving Gimli’s chambers, but he did not want to leave the bedroom unclad and ungroomed.  He remembered Gimli facing his sister stripped of his armor, and knew not how he had found the strength, in such a vulnerable position.  But then, Gimli’s strength had never been in question.

He had had little occasion to notice it before, as his senses had been occupied with Gimli, but now he saw that Gimli’s bedroom was tucked away past a wide entry chamber.  The room was broad and open, airy enough that he did not feel too trapped, even if it could have used a few windows.  The chairs, too, were shorter than convenient for his frame, but he had no interest in sitting, anyway, pacing instead around the chamber, picking things up and looking at them, burning off as much of his own agitation as he could.

They had not spoken of what they would do next.  And Legolas did not want to wake Gimli to ask him, but neither did he feel comfortable venturing out of these rooms – he knew not where in the mountain he would be allowed, nor what kind of behavior would be expected from him, and he did not –

He froze.  Footsteps were approaching.

There was a sharp knock at the door of the outer chambers, and then it opened before Legolas could even respond, and he was left rigid in the middle of the room, staring wide-eyed at the dwarf who entered and stopped, seeming as surprised to see him as he was her.

That surprise did not last long; her face settled eventually into a cool and challenging stare.  “Elf,” she said.

It was Gimli’s mother; their meeting had been brief, but her features were distinctive, at least to Legolas, for her eyes were dark and smoldering and exactly like Gimli’s.  Now was the moment for him to speak, it seemed, but he watched her eyes flick over his body and he felt every tangle in his hair, every haphazard fastening of his clothing, and he knew she knew exactly what he had been doing, and his voice was gone.

But he could not retreat into coldness – he had made enough of an impression on Gimli and his father at the first that he could not allow himself to do the same to his mother – but he could not speak!  He knew that it betrayed his weakness but he could not bear it any longer: he clamped his hands in front of him and wrung his fingers, feeling a bit of comfort in the outlet for his agitation.  To Geira, he could only nod.

She did not speak further, and probably she was waiting for him to say something, but Legolas had long since learned the lesson about trying to speak when he was not ready.  Best not to speak until he was sure that he could, so instead he stood quiet and watched her.

Finally, she broke the gaze and sighed.  “I am glad you are here alone,” she said.  “I had wished to speak with you anyway, and did not wish to pry you from behind my son’s skirts.”

Legolas flinched.  He could not help it – but he deserved it, anyway.  She was right to seek him out alone, for he could not have Gimli’s protection always.

He could feel her eyes on him – judging, measuring, and he tried to channel all of his fear into his hands, brace his legs to keep them from shaking.  He managed an incline of his head to her – acknowledgement, he hoped.

She looked at him another moment.  “Do you only speak when asked questions directly?” she said, and then – without waiting for an answer – she plowed forward.  “Very well.  Then I have questions for you.”

“Ask,” he managed to croak.  Swallowed and tried again.  “I will answer to the best of my ability.”

She cocked her head to the side, and then shrugged.  “Very well.  Why does my son love you?”

The abruptness of the question took him by surprise – but then, he supposed, he was in a mountain of dwarves, who were straightforward by nature.  Gimli had always been able to play at words if he needed to, but here, in her home, his mother surely had no need to do the same.  “I know not if I can answer,” he said finally.  “Would you not do better to ask him?”

She scowled, and he realized how flippant he had sounded and cursed himself.  He had already made things difficult enough – why had he had to speak so?  “I am asking you,” she said.

He would try again.  He forced himself to breathe once more before speaking.  “I can tell you only how we came to love one another,” he said, “and that was through battle and bloodshed and” – he could not help but laugh a little – “much effort on my part.  If you wish me to explain why I deserve that love, however, I have no answer for you.  The fortune is all mine.”  Surely that was not a sentiment with which Gimli’s mother could disagree – but then, he realized, perhaps that was why she asked.  He knew what other races thought of elves – the powers they attributed to them that they did not really have.  And given how little they truly knew about one another, who could blame them? “Unless – I have not bewitched him, if that is what you ask.  I have no such abilities.”

This did not seem to alleviate her suspicion.  “And how would you know that is what I was thinking?”

Legolas did not think there was any way he could answer rightly, but he tried.  “I have no power to read thoughts, or to change them. That belongs only to the greatest of our kind.”  And perhaps to none, now, he thought – now that the Rings had lost their power and the bearers set to sail into the West. 

That thought brought on a wholly new pain, a pain already familiar, but not yet so much as to be expected.  His decision to stay in Middle-earth had not lessened the power the Sea had over him, and now his eyes turned aside almost without his will, drawing his thoughts away south to the gulls, soaring above the river, leading away, away to a sea that he had never yet seen, but he knew what it looked like; he knew how it would feel beneath the swells of his ship –

“Master Elf.”  Her voice snapped him out of his thoughts and he swayed, groping for a wall to steady himself.  This call was still new to him, its power often overwhelming.  When he wrenched himself back into the present, he almost felt as though his heart tore down the middle, as though half of it remained winging above, with the gulls, on the way to the salty swells.  But the other half was here, in the room with the mother of his beloved.

And Gimli was behind the door; Legolas’s eyes turned toward it now almost independent of his will, and he found himself yearning to run: Gimli was protection, was anchor – and yet he could not be all.  Legolas could not allow Gimli to take all of his pain, would shoulder his own burden with a courage that he had to believe he possessed.  He would return the favor Gimli had given him in his own halls, and face his friend’s mother with courage and strength, and his voice would not shake, and his legs would not give out, though he kept his steadying palm flat on the wall to keep himself upright, the other clenched in his tunic, rubbing the fabric between his fingers.

“I am sorry,” he managed, forcing his eyes back to her.  “I was – thinking.  I” –

No! For all his determination, the words still did not want to come out, not the way he wanted them to.  “I have not the power of the greatest of the elves,” he managed.  “I am merely a wood-elf.  I have not bewitched your son – unbelievable though his favor of me may be, I promise you that it is his own.”

His ears caught the sounds of Gimli stirring within the room – a promise of relief to come yet, if he could just hold on a little longer.  So he waited, forcing his eyes to meet hers, glad, at least, that he did not have to look up.

“Hmm,” she said.  Unconvinced, clearly, and why would she not be?  Legolas knew her surprise and her dismay.  Any elf, after all, would be a disappointment to a dwarf’s parents – and if it must be an elf, why Legolas?  What had he to offer Gimli, whose strength and ability were unmatched, whose great heart could have chosen anyone?  And yet that heart had chosen him, and Legolas could never regret it.

Perhaps his love showed on his face, for as he looked down at her, he could almost feel her softening.  “I know it is difficult to accept,” he ventured.  “My father” –

No!  He should not have mentioned his father; even now, he could see all the progress he had made moving backwards.  Legolas could have banged his head against the wall, but instead he tried to salvage it.  “I mean – he did not want to accept it in the beginning, but he knew – elves – we cannot change our hearts so easily, and he knew that nothing could stop me” –

Her brows went up so high that they disappeared into her hair.  “Nothing can stop you?” she repeated.  “Was that a threat?”

Legolas did not know why he had not simply resigned himself already to saying everything wrongly, or in the wrong order.  “No threat,” he said, “but a truth.  Elves take one partner in all our lives, if at all, and once we have bound ourselves, those ties cannot be undone.”

“Bound yourselves?” Once more she echoed him, and Legolas’s tongue tripped over the explanation.  To speak of such things was no source of shame among elves, but he knew that it was not so among the other races, and he did not wish to explain to Gimli’s mother what it meant to wed an elf.

But as it turned out, he did not need to, for at that moment, Gimli emerged from his chamber, wearing breeches and nothing else, and if Legolas’s appearance had not told his mother all she needed to know, this was surely enough to fill in the rest.  “Legolas?” he asked.  “Are you – ah. Amad.”  His cheeks flushed bright red.  “I did not expect you to be here.”  His glance flashed to Legolas.  “Are you harassing my chosen?”

Geira lifted her chin.  “I need not explain my actions to you, my son.”

“You do when they involve my beloved,” Gimli argued right back, “who has braved the hordes of Mordor and the disapproval of my kin to declare his intentions.”

Legolas looked back and forth between them, not sure whether he should be speaking, not sure how to respond at all.  But Gimli stepped forward and slipped his hand into Legolas’s, and at the lace of their fingers, something in Legolas steadied.  The stumbling words, fear of speaking wrongly, and that sudden, stabbing presence of the sea in his thoughts – all of that faded, if only a bit, and Gimli’s presence grounded him, stabilized him.  He had taken a breath to try to speak once more – though he knew not what he would have said – but Gimli forestalled him, saying something sharp and quick in his own tongue.

His mother looked at Legolas for a moment, as though wary of him picking up secrets, but perhaps his bewilderment showed on his face, for she responded in kind, voice lilting up as though asking a question.  Gimli answered it, and though Legolas knew not the words he could hear the heat creeping into Gimli’s tone.  Enough, it seemed, that even his mother was taken aback, and silence fell between them for a heavy moment.

Geira broke it finally, switching back into Westron.  “I see,” she said finally, looking at Legolas and giving a slow nod.  “I wished to see if you would not hide behind my son, and I am satisfied.”  Legolas’s cheeks, neck, and ears burned so hot he felt almost cold, but she simply braced a hand on her hip.  “My husband is not so easily pleased, and will surely wish to speak to you himself.  But you have my approval, Legolas, son of Thranduil – though as Gimli has reminded me, you need it not.”

“I” – Legolas reeled, still burning with shame but now with confusion added in.  But in the end there was only one thing to say – Gimli would have warned him if she did not speak the truth.  “I thank you, my lady.  Gimli is” – He faltered at the attempt to say it.  “He is all to me, but I would never wish to come between him and his kin.”  He flushed even hotter, if at all possible, but she took pity on him, and with another nod, she was out of the room.

Legolas sighed and slumped, tension he hadn’t even noticed leaving his body at last.  Gimli gripped his arm.  “Are you well?” he asked in concern.

“I am,” he said.  “And you?  I am sorry to cause discord between you and your kin” –

Gimli waved that off with a hand.  “Discord is nothing new,” he said.  “Tempers will burn hot for a day or two, and then they will calm and accept you into the family.  We need only wait.”

“They think I am not worthy of you,” whispered Legolas, and the truth of it seized him inside.  “In truth, they are not wrong” –

“No,” said Gimli firmly, gripping Legolas’s face and dragging him down to his level.  “I will not hear this from you again.  You are more than worthy of my love and all I could give you.  It is my good fortune that you granted me your love, even after the way we began.”  He frowned, though Legolas could tell that he was merely teasing.  “Must I tell you once more all that I love about you?”

Legolas’s face heated up once more.  “No,” he said.  In truth, he knew not how to react when Gimli complimented him: part of him wanted to beg for Gimli to speak on; another part for him to stop.  It was easier, more comfortable, when he did not; Legolas did not have to try to reevaluate his own position, or wonder if Gimli was lying – but there were times when Gimli spoke words of love or praise to him, when Legolas saw truth shining in his eyes and felt this strange light, shooting joy, as though his body was filled with the reflection of starlight on water.  Now, though, he was off balance enough.  “What did you say to your mother?”

Gimli released Legolas’s face and took his hand instead, pulling him back into the bedroom to sit them both on the edge of the bed.  “I reminded her that I am old enough to make my decisions for myself.”  He kissed Legolas before he could reply, and continued.  “And that she is more intelligent than to doubt my choices, and the worth of companions who have brought me home from war whole in body and mind.”

“And she?”

Gimli smiled.  “She respects you.  She has seen your courage now, and I think she will take our part, should any trouble arise in the future.”

“Courage,” scoffed Legolas.

“Courage,” said Gimli.  “I know this is not the first time you have heard this; I met your family, remember.”  He kissed Legolas again.  “Do not fish for compliments when you know I would give them to you freely.”

Legolas’s insides drew tight, and he shrank back.  “I do not mean” – There was nothing he could say now, to ask Gimli to go out of his way –

“Peace!” Gimli said, alarmed now.  “Legolas, I was jesting only.”  He slid an arm around Legolas’s waist, with a questioning look; Legolas nodded, grounding himself in Gimli’s touch, which he understood without question.

“I knew that, I think,” he whispered.  “Forgive me, Gimli – I am just on edge” –

“And with good reason,” said Gimli.  He turned to face Legolas now, one hand still around his waist, the other rising to cup his face.  “Do not think that I underestimate what you have done for me today – or the toll it has taken on you.  I am sorry that our acceptance has not been so easy here as it was at your home – my parents cannot simply look into my eyes and see all that you give me.  But I promise you it is no less true – and my family will be no less true to you, once they have been made to understand.”  The gentleness in his voice, the kindness in his eyes, was too much and Legolas had to close his own.  He felt Gimli’s warm, rough thumb stroke lightly at the corner of his eye, dabbing away a tear that Legolas had not even realized was there.  “And I will not leave your side, no matter what happens.”

Legolas kept his eyes squeezed shut, pressing his lips together and swallowing at the lump in his throat.  More tears came despite his best efforts to hold them back, and Gimli kissed them away, holding him gently, until eventually Legolas gave up the fight and put his head on Gimli’s shoulder, a new flood of tension leaving him with every quiet sob.  He tried more than once to apologize, but each time Gimli hushed him, rubbing his back and murmuring comfort to him.

When the fit had passed, he was so spent that he could barely peel himself out of Gimli’s arms.  But Gimli understood, as always, and guided him instead to lie down.  “Rest,” he said.  “You are exhausted.  I will bring food for when you wake, and I promise you will not have to speak to anyone but me until tomorrow.”

And perhaps Legolas should have protested, but he lacked the strength to do anything but nod.  “Thank you,” he murmured.  “I love you,” because right now it needed to be said.

“And I you,” Gimli replied, kissing his forehead, “with every part of me.”  He tucked Legolas in under a blanket – unnecessary, but the gesture was so loving that Legolas almost wept again.  “Now sleep, my love.  All will be better in the morning.”

Legolas slept.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) Gimli's mom totally does the Mom Knock (TM).
> 
> 2) I also want to stress that I don't think dwarves are bad people at all. I just think that they, like most people in Middle-earth, would be the kind of people who "don't believe in anxiety" and think it's a weakness of character (particularly given that dwarves' trademark trait is their strength and ability to endure). Also Legolas is not good at meeting people.


	33. Chapter 33

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While Legolas rests, Gimli speaks to his parents in private.

He should not have been, of course, not after all that had happened that day, but Gimli was surprised at how quickly Legolas dropped off.

Gimli watched him as he slept: his eyes open but only barely, long eyelashes almost brushing his cheekbones.  The only time Gimli had ever seen him rest with eyes fully closed had been in his own bedroom in Mirkwood – apparently only there had he ever felt safe enough to _truly_ sleep – but this was as close as Gimli had seen him come aside from those nights.  From exhaustion, probably, or maybe because he trusted Gimli enough to sleep safely in his home?  Dried tear tracks still smudged his cheeks, though, and Gimli wondered if perhaps he simply lacked the strength to keep his eyes open.

He brushed Legolas’s hair back from his forehead and let his hands linger among the strands; Legolas did not react, and Gimli saw how deeply he slept: rarely was he so unresponsive to the world around him.  Given the lack of response, then, he kept stroking Legolas’s hair, and letting his own thoughts drift.

The reception itself had not been so bad as Gimli had feared; it was Legolas’s reaction to it that had made it so difficult.  Which was an uncharitable thought, Gimli knew, and he tried to force it out of his head immediately, because he knew it was not Legolas’s fault – knew, indeed, that Legolas had done all he could.  He could not help being who he was – both an elf, and one who shied away from meeting new people. It was not a defect of character, Gimli knew; it was simply the way he was – but now the pressure of making things run smoothly rested on Gimli’s shoulders, and that was not fair either.

And yet – He looked at Legolas, sleeping peacefully out of trust in _him_ , and his irritation dissipated.  He leaned down, overwhelmed with tenderness, and kissed Legolas’s brow: he had tried so hard, after all, braved so much, to come and return a favor that had – somehow – gone far more easily for Gimli than it had for him.  And had been hurt by it.

He sighed.

He was still mostly undressed, he remembered now, so he put his clothing back on.  Perhaps later they could bathe; that would be both necessary and relaxing.  And he would bring up food for them to eat here; he knew Legolas would not want to see his parents again tonight.  Truth be told, Gimli knew not how long he would sleep – perhaps food would not even be necessary.

He did not want to disturb Legolas, particularly not to go visit other dwarves – but it was not enough for him to sit here alone, not when he had just returned home, not when there were so many people he still needed to see.  He rose from the bed and found paper to write Legolas a note, attaching it to the inside of the door where Legolas would see it if he woke, so that he would know Gimli was not far.

Then he slipped out of the room and went to find his parents.

He found them a ways down the hall in their shared living space.  He had moved out of his childhood bedroom and into his own wing of the house once he reached his majority, but he would have stayed in the same space as his parents until he married.  Now, he supposed the thoughts he had had for his future might have to be somewhat revised.

They had been speaking quietly, but stopped once he appeared in the doorway and both turned to look at him.  For a moment, no one spoke.

Then his mother stood.  “Where is your elf?” she asked.

“He is upstairs,” sighed Gimli.  Of course that would be the first question.

“Too good to lower himself to come and speak with us?” snorted his father.

“Adad!” snapped Gimli.  “You saw for yourself that that is not how he thinks.  I thought it of him once, as well, but I was wrong.  Now will you not greet me, or are you so bothered by my heart’s direction that _you_ will not lower yourself to welcome your son home?”

Those words hit where he had intended them to, and his father flinched for a moment and then stood up to enfold Gimli in his arms.  “You are right,” he said, pulling back to press his forehead against Gimli’s.  “Welcome home, Gimli.  Our days have been bleaker in your absence.”

Gimli returned the embrace, and his mother’s as well, losing himself for a moment in their joy at having him home and his own joy at returning.  It was not until he pulled away that he finally allowed himself to address the subject that hung between them.

“Adad,” he said.  “I know you are not greatly pleased with me.”

“I am not pleased with your choice of partner,” corrected his father.  “I am not displeased with you.”

“They come to the same thing,” Gimli pointed out.  “You know as well as I – better – the ways of our kind.  If I could not have him, I would have no other, but we have given ourselves to one another, and will not willingly be parted.  You may not like it, but where Legolas goes, I go.”

“I know that,” said Glóin, sighing, “and I cannot stop it, but that does not mean I do not worry about the wisdom of your choice.  An elf?  And more – Thranduil’s son?”

“Adad,” Gimli started, though he knew not how to finish.  How to tell his father that he had met Thranduil, that the Elvenking had been, if not warm, much more welcoming than he had expected?  “Adad, elves are – they are not so bad, not all of them.  And Legolas is” –

“’Elves are not so bad’?” repeated Glóin, incredulous.  “That is how you respond.  I know elves are not so bad, Gimli – or not all of them; I do not trust Thranduil or his line – did I not bring you to Rivendell for counsel from Elrond?  It is not that I think elves are all _so bad_ , but they are not made to mate with dwarves!  They do not understand us, and more, they do not care to; they are haughty and proud, and many of them lack the strength to back their pride!  How could I ever wish you to make a match with one who cannot match _you_?”

“Cannot match” – Gimli spluttered, actually driven to speechlessness for a moment.  “Have you so little respect for my instincts and my tastes?  That you would observe my beloved for _moments_ and judge him unworthy of me?  He is a warrior in his own right, one as deadly as I am in battle and as strong in spirit.  He kept me alive and whole for months, even as I did the same for him!  How can you judge him” –

“How can I not?” interrupted Glóin, his voice raised to a shout.

They both fell silent for a moment, while Gimli tried to collect his thoughts to speak to his father, to try to explain – and while he prayed that Legolas slept still, and could not hear them from where he was.  “It is the way he is, Adad,” he said.  “He cannot help it, however he tries.  And he tries.  He did not have to come here to meet you, but he did, because he cares for me.  Amad spoke to him, and while I know not what all they said, I know that she understands.”  He turned to stare at his mother, daring her to contradict him.

She did not.  “Aye,” she said, nodding slowly.  “I do.  I do not understand it, but I know that he made a valiant effort to speak to me.  I saw that it took much courage, and I cannot but admire that.”

There was silence again for a few moments longer.  Gimli could see his father wavering, weakening under the combined persuasive power of his wife and his son, and Gimli took the opportunity to strike the deciding blow.

“And, Adad,” he said.  “You say that elves are not meant to pair with dwarves.  I think maybe you are correct – for our partnership may well cost Legolas his life.”

That drew the attention of both of his parents.  “Why his life?” asked his mother.

Gimli crossed his arms over his chest.  “Have you forgotten that elves are immortal?” he said.  “How would you fare, if your love died” – he winced while saying that, realizing that he spoke to his parents, and not wanting to imagine one of them falling – “but you knew that you never would?”

That hit home; he could see them both look at one another and then at him, so he continued.  “In choosing me, Legolas binds himself to either death or an endless lifetime of pain, and this bond will not be broken.  We have wed in elvish fashion, which needs no blessing from anyone but the couple themselves, but I would have your blessing to wed in the ways of our people as well.”

His mother was the first to sigh, reaching for Gimli’s hands.  “You have mine already,” she said.  “I have seen the courage of your chosen, and come to respect him, but even if I did not, you are right that your choice cannot be unmade.  You have my blessing, Gimli.”

“And you have mine,” rumbled his father.  “I cannot say that I like it – or him – but I would see you happy, Gimli, and if your elf would make such sacrifices as you say he has for you, then he clearly wishes the same.  If you wish to wed, you have our support.”

“Thank you,” Gimli said, and he felt his body actually go weak with relief – and with perfect timing, he was seized in a double embrace by both of his parents, and he held on.

* * *

That evening, Glóin son of Groin approached Thorin Stonehelm, king of Erebor, and requested that a feast be arranged – a welcome for two of the Nine Walkers, and a wedding celebration for his son.


	34. Chapter 34

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Gimli has friends, too, and Legolas takes a risk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're almost there, friends! These last couple of chapters are it! I really toyed with the idea of writing more, because of course there's always going to be more to explore when it comes to these two, but I decided that the essential arc of this story comes to its end next chapter. Thank you so much for sticking with me.

When Legolas woke, he had no idea what time it was.

He found himself blinking, looking around, listening for any indicator of morning or evening, midnight or noon – but there was nothing.  The sun and stars were not visible from this room deep in the mountain; he could hear no birds chirping, smell no grass or green things, no whispers of day or night.  And this stone was too old and worn, too long used to dwarves and dragons and the affairs of a kingdom, to whisper to a lone elf of the time of day.

But there were other indicators.  Gimli was beside him, curled against his chest with one hand in his hair and the other on his hip.  His breath was even and deep, not snoring as he did when he was shallowly asleep, so it must be near the middle of the night.

Legolas lay quiet for a moment and took stock.  He remembered the previous day, cringing as the memories all crashed down onto him – but when he shrank away, Gimli murmured in his sleep and clutched him closer.  Even in his sleep he would not let Legolas fret for too long, it seemed, and the wave of tenderness that overwhelmed Legolas then left no room for the shame that threatened.  He leaned forward, instead, to drop a kiss on Gimli’s forehead, settling his arms around the dwarf in turn.

Ordinarily he did not like to lie too long awake in bed – and he had already slept enough tonight to regain the strength he had lost and then some – but in sleeping with Gimli he had found a reason not to rise.  The warmth of Gimli’s body pressed against his, the quiet grumbling noises he made in his dreams, the softness of his unbound hair spilling over Legolas’s arms and chest – it was calming, steadying like nothing Legolas had ever experienced, and he found that he could spend hours just holding Gimli as he slept, treasuring every quiet noise, every tiny movement.

Even here, in a mountain much more oppressive than the caves of Legolas’s home – due both to the build and the company – Gimli gave Legolas strength.

“Thank you, my love,” he whispered to Gimli’s unhearing ears – it still amused him, sometimes, how little mortals perceived of the world around him when they slept – and closed his eyes as well, the better to hear the sound of Gimli’s breathing.

* * *

Gimli woke in the morning to quiet humming, and the tingling feeling of light fingers in his hair.  He took a deep breath, feeling the body against him shift, and opened his eyes to Legolas’s staring back at him.

“Good morning, love,” said Legolas quietly.  “Did you sleep well?”

It was his usual question in the morning, but today Gimli did not answer it right away, tipping his chin up instead for a good morning kiss.  Legolas returned it with gentle passion, mouth slow but welcoming against Gimli’s.  It felt _right_ – Gimli had needed some affirmation of their bond after all the tension of the night before, but it seemed Legolas had, too, for he seemed in no hurry to break the kiss.

Gimli answered the question when they finally parted.  “I always sleep well when you sleep beside me.  And you?”  This last he said carefully, giving Legolas a meaningful look so that he would know that Gimli spoke of yesterday.  “How do you fare this morning?”

Legolas sighed.  “I am well.  No, truly,” he insisted, when Gimli raised an eyebrow in doubt.  “I slept long and deeply, and woke with you in my arms.  I confess that I know not how I will present myself to the others of your friends and family, but I find comfort in the thought that little can be worse than yesterday.”

“Then here is further comfort for you,” said Gimli.  He wished there was something else he could say to instill confidence in Legolas, but he could not deny that the elf had a point about his reception the day before.  But all had not gone so terribly as Legolas seemed to believe.  “I spoke to my parents last night after you fell asleep, and I explained matters to them.  My father has gone to the king to request a wedding feast.”

Legolas jerked back from Gimli in surprise, eyes going round, lips parting.  “He – ?”

Gimli pulled him back in.  “Aye.  Even as your father accepted us, he would not have me choose between my love and my family.  We are to be wed within the week.”

Legolas spoke not, only kissed him again.  Gimli closed his eyes and wound his arms all the way around Legolas: so slim, it almost felt that too tight a clasp would break him, but when he held tight he could feel the strength and solidness in Legolas’s muscles.  Even as he had to remind himself that Legolas was: for as vulnerable as he seemed sometimes, he had strength to match any dwarf, so long as he had the chance to show it.

“Thank you,” Legolas whispered when they parted.  “I thought it would take a miracle to convince your parents after my impression on them, but I should have remembered that you are a miracle in yourself.”

Gimli felt himself flushing.  “It is too early for such flattery,” he protested, so Legolas kissed him again.

* * *

Unlike Legolas’s, Gimli’s bathing chambers had hot water piped easily in.  It was not a temperature that Legolas had ever preferred before – made him sleepy rather than refreshed and invigorated – but Gimli refused to bathe in cold unless it could not be avoided, so Legolas was learning to adjust.  Bathing with Gimli was worth the sacrifice, anyway: in this tub, Gimli settled between Legolas’s legs, and his body against Legolas’s chest was all that his heart needed.  And regardless of their position, the chance to touch Gimli so tenderly, to lather up that beautiful hot-coal hair, was not something Legolas could ever pass up.

He had already felt better after his long sleep, but feeling clean improved it even further: it was as though he were washing his soul and his record clean as well, somehow soaping away the film of guilt and shame that clung to him after his conduct yesterday.  He emerged from the bath refreshed and, if not exactly confident, then at least calmer than he had been.

It was while they were breakfasting, on simple fare akin to their road food (all of Gimli’s grand promises to cook seemed not yet in action), that Gimli spoke up.

“I would visit some friends and kin today,” he said, and Legolas saw that he was watching him carefully.  “Will you come with me, or would you rather remain here?”

The mix of emotions that ran through Legolas was strange and convoluted: first offense, that Gimli thought him so craven; then shame, that Gimli’s thoughts were not without foundation; then a return of that deep weariness that had taken him so swiftly the night before, as he realized that perhaps he did want to stay.  But that was only a flicker, for his pride would not allow him to stay behind again – and he refused to remain in Gimli’s home without Gimli himself.

“I will not cower in your chambers and shame myself still further,” he said as firmly as he could.  “Unless – would you prefer me to stay?”

Gimli caught his hands, stilling their unconscious motion.  “There is no place I would rather have you than at my side.”

And he remembered long ago, that he had thought visiting Erebor would not be so frightening, as long as Gimli was beside him.  For all that had happened, it was still true.

“Good,” he breathed.

But even as Gimli led him out of his quarters, through the shared living space where neither of his parents was currently present, Legolas was hatching a plan.

* * *

Gimli knew not where exactly he would find Ain and Nali, but as early as it was, there was a reasonable chance that they would still be at home.  So that was where he thought to try first: in the small living space that they shared.

They had moved in together a few years ago, after Ain’s love had wed another.  Nali had long since declared that he would have none, that his life was devoted solely to his craft (jeweling, though he was a fair hand with an axe when he could be coaxed into a sparring match), and when Ain had realized that he too would be without a partner, but did not wish to live the rest of his life in his family’s quarters, Nali had opened his home.

Neither of them had outright invited Gimli to live with them, but he wondered now if they had been expecting it eventually.  Though far from old, he was past the years when most dwarves found love – though later romances were certainly not unheard-of – and perhaps in a few years he might have ended up moving in with his friends, not giving up hope for his love but at least making a statement that he was no longer waiting.

And – he realized now – had he not accompanied his father to Rivendell, months ago, he would have.  Would have returned home, would have fought with the rest of the dwarves here to defend their stronghold from Sauron’s forces in the north.  Would never have met Legolas – and without Legolas, he would have had no other.

“Gimli?” asked Legolas, and he realized that his grip had tightened around Legolas’s fingers.  “Are you well?”

“Better than well,” he said, and reeled Legolas in closer by their joined hands.  “I am glad you are here with me, my love.”

Legolas bowed his head to comfortably lift Gimli’s fingers to his lips – and Gimli rejoiced in his openness, even in this place where he felt such discomfort.  “I am glad as well,” he said softly.  “I promise, despite everything, I am glad.”

The journey to Ain’s and Nali’s quarters was not too far from Gimli’s own home – especially not compared to a journey all across Rohan.  He pulled Legolas to the side when they reached it – a sudden sharp turn, a short set of steps, and a door directly against the wall.  Tucked away, as both Nali and Ain preferred their privacy.

Ah, well.  They would survive this.

Gimli rapped sharply on the door, waited a moment, and then knocked again.

Ain was the one who opened it.  He stared at Gimli for a moment, and then with an inarticulate cry he threw himself forward and seized Gimli in a crushing embrace.

Gimli hugged him back, laughing even as a few traitor tears escaped the corners of his eyes.  His sense of everything was lost in his friend’s embrace – hence, he was surprised when, no sooner had Ain reluctantly let him go but Nali was there to catch him up in turn.

When Gimli was finally released, all three of them were blinking back tears.  “I am glad to find you both well and whole,” he said, realizing only after he said it that it was a worry that had plagued him ever since he had met Legolas’s friend Eleniel.

“And we, you,” said Nali gruffly, clapping him on the shoulder.  “And it seems the rumors are true.”

“Rumors?” Gimli blinked, and noticed that Nali’s gaze had come to rest on Legolas over Gimli’s shoulder.  “So I am to assume that the circumstances of my return have not been kept secret?”

“Secret?” Ain laughed, surprisingly loud and genuine – Gimli listened carefully for mockery in his voice, but found none.  “It’s all over the mountain: Gimli son of Glóin has returned and brought an elf as his – well, the nature of your relationship with the elf is more a matter of speculation, but I assume that you are the elf of whom the rumors speak.”  He bowed to Legolas.  “Ain, son of Anar, at your service.”

Gimli glanced at Legolas, but he needn’t have worried; Legolas gave a graceful bow of his own.  “Legolas, son of Thranduil, at yours and your family’s,” he said in the dwarvish greeting Gimli had taught him.  His voice was cool but not yet cold, and Gimli sent him a reassuring smile, laying a hand on his arm.

Nali’s eyes followed Gimli’s hand, and his eyes widened.  “Nali, son of Nain, at yours,” he said.  To Gimli he mouthed, ‘an elf?’ but Gimli just shrugged.

It was Ain who remembered his manners.  “Well, come in, both of you,” he said.  “We have not prepared for guests” –

“Ah, since when am I a guest in this house?” Gimli interrupted, shouldering his way in and tugging Legolas along. “You need stand on no ceremony for me, friends.  But I wished to see you again – and to introduce you to my betrothed.”

“So the wilder rumors are indeed true.”  Ain followed him in, voice more interested than disapproving.  “You are to be wed.”

“According to the customs of Legolas’s people, we already are,” said Gimli before considering the wisdom of his own words.  But even as he had not known of elvish custom in these matters, neither, it seemed, did his friends, for Ain merely nodded and Nali shrugged.  Gimli hurried on nonetheless.  “But we wished to wed in elvish and dwarvish fashion alike, that our union be recognized by both our peoples.”

They entered the sitting room then, and Gimli looked around.  All was as it had been: comfortable armchairs, tables of polished agate covered in clutter.  Papers were strewn over one; the other was covered in bits of stone and metal and half-finished jewelry that could only be Nali’s work.  Ain’s dual swords hung polished and shining on the walls.

Gimli saw that Legolas was looking around, eyes bright with interest.  When Nali noticed it, he scowled and threw a cloth over his table to shield his work from sight.  Out of his own desire for privacy, Gimli wondered, or because Legolas was an elf?

Legolas had noticed; Gimli felt the muscles in his wrist tense.  His hands twisted as though to clutch one another, and Gimli laced their fingers together to prevent it.

Ain’s eyes flicked to their joined hands, then back up.  “Well,” he said.  “As I said before, we were not expecting guests, but I can make tea.  And are you hungry?  I made some excellent cobbler yesterday.”  He looked at Legolas.  “Gimli will have attempted to make you true dwarvish food, I expect, but do not trust him.  His assessment of his own cooking is far too generous.”

“Ah, you wound me,” said Gimli, hand to his heart. This good-natured teasing was familiar to him, and he fell into it easily. “Merely because I do not turn up my nose at food made with fewer than ten ingredients’ –

“Cannot make anything more complex, you mean,” Nali cut in.

They were tag-teaming him now! Gimli protested, and they continued to tease. It was like old times, as though nothing had changed.  That alone would have been enough to warm his heart, but he cut his eyes over to Legolas and saw that the elf was smiling.

When they had all settled, tea and plates of food spread before them, Ain turned to Legolas.  “So . . . Legolas,” he said, with a look of question at Gimli, who nodded approval of his pronunciation.  “Tell us about yourself.  Your family, your craft – your story.”

“I” – Legolas stammered and looked to Gimli.  Gimli put a hand on his leg under the table and gave it a comforting squeeze; Legolas’s own hand came to rest atop it, and Gimli felt his fingers begin their compulsive tensing and relaxing.  “I am an archer of Mirkwood, recently rechristened Lasgalen” –

“And by ‘recently,’ he means while we were there,” interrupted Gimli.  “In fact, his father renamed it for him.”  He squeezed the fingers against his to assure Legolas that the jest was meant only in fun.

“Ah, and if you would cease reminding me of that sometime this century,” groaned Legolas, but his muscles seemed to loosen a fraction, and Gimli smiled, his mission accomplished.

“Yes.”  Nali broke in now.  “Your father is King Thranduil.”

Progress undone, Legolas tensed up again.  “Yes,” he said, voice hardening in automatic defense.

To Gimli’s relief, Ain stepped in again to divert the subject.  “And your craft, Master Legolas?  I know elves do not define themselves thusly, but surely you have one?”

Legolas hesitated.  “I know not,” he said.  “I would not say I have – I know enough fletching and woodcraft to keep my weapons in repair, but otherwise I would not” –

“Archery,” Gimli cut in.  “That is a craft; Ain here is a swordsman.  And” – He knew not how much of Legolas’s life was dedicated to this, and how much of it was merely an elvish trait, but regardless it deserved to be said.  “Music.  Ain, Nali – you have never heard singing like Legolas’s.”

Legolas was blushing; it was beautiful to see, and Gimli could not help the truly besotted smile that he felt spreading across his face.  Nali was looking at him, eyebrows raised even as his lids dropped, making his eyes into slits of incredulity.  “Ah,” he said.

“What?” Gimli demanded.

“I thought surely the rumors were exaggerated.”  Nali’s eyes flitted back and forth between Gimli and Legolas.  “I find they were not.”

“What rumors?” It was Legolas who spoke, and Gimli felt him tensing up again, could practically feel his heart speeding up.  Of course – Legolas’s less-than-ideal arrival at the mountain had almost slipped his mind, but clearly that was not the case for Legolas.  Guilty for forgetting, he looked a challenge at Nali, daring him to mention anything.

Nali raised an eyebrow at Gimli.  “Merely that I had not truly expected to see my friend so in love as some seemed to believe.  Yet it is impossible to deny.”

There was a look of slight incredulity on his face as he said those words, and Gimli knew that such love was still – and would likely ever be – incomprehensible to Nali.  Gimli had known since he was young that there was one love waiting for him, somewhere, though he knew not who that person would be; Nali had found such a knowledge impossible to understand.  They had had passionate discussions on the subject until Ain had found and lost his own love, and then the subject had closed between them.  But now –

Gimli thought to look over at Ain, but his own face was composed.  Dwarves were strong and hard, and accustomed to enduring, and Ain had long since resigned himself to his loss, but Gimli knew that it still pained him at times – and he thought again of his conversations with Legolas and Laerwen, of his knowledge that he would one day knowingly resign Legolas to that pain –

But there was nothing for it now, and Legolas had been right: it would be a shame to waste the time that they did have together with those thoughts.  As ever, then, Gimli tried to push it out of his head.

The conversation had lulled, he realized; it had been his job to respond, and lost in his own thoughts, he had failed to answer in a timely manner.  But to his surprise, it was Legolas who broke the silence.  “I count myself fortunate for it each day,” he said, voice graver than it perhaps should have been.  “Only now I beg that you would excuse me.”  He laid a hand on Gimli’s arm, a seemingly casual touch, but Gimli felt the tension in the fingers.  “It is nothing against the food or the company, please believe me, but there is something I would accomplish today, and I do not wish to disrupt the reunion of friends any further.  I will return to your home, Gimli, and speak to you further when you have returned, if that is acceptable to you.”

“I will walk you,” Gimli began, unhappy with the idea of the lone elf in the mountain – for many reasons, truly – but Legolas shook his head.

“Nay, I remember the way, and for this, you cannot accompany me.”  When Gimli hesitated, reluctant, Legolas squeezed his arm.  “Trust me, Gimli.”

“I do, only” –

“Wonderful.”  Legolas released him, and in a flash was on his feet.  “I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Masters Ain, Nali.  Gimli, I will see you later, upon your return home.”  And before Gimli could protest, he bent down and kissed his temple, the briefest brush of lips, and disappeared.

Ain and Nali were left blinking at Gimli.  He, meanwhile, could not shake his unease.  “Will he be well in the mountain, do you think?” he said.  “An elf, wandering unaccompanied?”

“If the king has granted his permission for you to be wed here, that is akin to his approval,” pointed out Ain.  “He will not be imprisoned or penalized.”

“Then the only danger is that he will be attacked by angry dwarves,” added Nali unhelpfully.  “As fragile as he appears, one good blow could break him in half” –

“He is not fragile!” Gimli fired up.  “He is a warrior as strong and skilled as any, with endurance as great as any dwarf.  How dare you” –

He stopped.  They were both laughing at him, and he slumped in defeat.  “Very well; I am worrying overmuch.”

“Why did he leave so quickly?” asked Ain.  “We did not mean to drive him away.”

“You did not.  He is” – Gimli hesitated, searching for the way to explain – “shy,” seemed the best word, though it was not quite right.  “He does not like to meet new people.  And I have asked already more of him than he is able to give, these last days.”

“Then all the rumors are true?” said Ain.  “It is said that the elf had some sort of fit, when entering the mountain.”

Gimli looked down.  “Do not tell him that it is spoken of, I beg you,” he said.  “It is not a thing he can control, and truly it makes him no less deadly in battle, and no less of a delight once you know him.  I despised him at first, and now.”  He waved a hand to indicate all that they were.

“Yes,” said Nali.  “It seems you have many tales to tell, of love and war alike.”

“And since you have been given some time,” added Ain, “we would love to hear them.”

* * *

Legolas, meanwhile, approached his destination with shaking legs and a heavy heart.

 _Oh_ , he did not want to do this.  It went without saying, of course, but he could not help thinking it, with every step he took.  Left foot: _Lord Glóin, I know that I am not what you wished for your son_ ; right foot: _no please no_ ; left foot: _you must do this_ ; right foot: _but I would have us make our peace_ ; left foot: _calm down, calm down, calm down._

He had realized immediately that this was something he must do, and something he must do alone, and had paid careful attention this morning when Gimli had led him away.  He knew where to walk and how far, almost the exact number of steps down the roadlike hall before the turn, and had committed the exact sight of Gimli’s door to memory.  Now he walked as quickly as he could with the heavy weight of dread in his stomach; the sooner begun, the sooner finished, and besides he did not like the feeling of the stares he was receiving.  It would have been better were Gimli with him – but Gimli could not accompany him for this.  He must prove his worth on his own.

Still, he was relieved when he arrived at the door he had made sure to remember: relieved to slip inside away from the eyes that seemed to glitter in disapproval from every corner, whether he could see them or only imagine them; away from the heaviness in the very air that seemed to press down upon his body and soul.

But he knew not whether he was more relieved or disappointed when he spied Glóin sitting in the kitchen, poring over some document.  For all that he had told himself he was going to do this, that he must simply take the leap, he felt his throat close up at the sight.

But it would have to happen sometime, and he had made this decision, so he forced himself to take a breath and tapped lightly at the doorframe.

“Lord Glóin,” he said.  Ran out of air, and breathed again.  “If I might speak with you a moment?”

Glóin looked up from his paper, his eyes narrowing when they fell upon Legolas.  “Ah,” he said.  “You.”

“Legolas, please,” said Legolas.  “If I am to wed your son, ‘you’ would not be my preferred term of endearment from my kin.”

The moment after he had said it, he clamped his mouth shut, but it was too late.  Had he spoiled everything already?  For a moment, Glóin stared at him with narrowed eyes, and then he laughed, loud and deep.

“That’s more like it,” he said.  “So he has a backbone!  I did not know it from your conduct earlier.”

Legolas forced himself to breathe once more.  It was no more than he had been expecting, he reminded himself; this was a shame he had brought on himself.  He had remembered Gimli’s first reactions to him and thought it would be best not to present himself thus once more, knowing what was said of elves – but perhaps that was what Glóin would have preferred?  Or perhaps he would have preferred it merely because he was expecting it?  “My apologies, then, for withholding it,” he said.  “It is merely that my backbone does not seem to improve my impression among many.  And given the opinion that I know dwarves hold of my people, I thought it best to forgo haughtiness.”

Glóin’s smile faded immediately; he patted the table to indicate that Legolas should sit.  “Then you know I have little trust for you,” he said.  “Since you have done me the courtesy of coming to me in absence of my son, I will assume you desire my honesty, and I will do you the courtesy of giving it to you.  I do not know what you seek from me, Legolas son of Thranduil, but I know in turn what elves think of dwarves.  Gimli assures me that you are an exception to this rule, and I certainly cannot deny his affection for you – but should you be using that affection for the purposes of extortion, I assure you that you will be very sorry.”

And here it was.  Legolas had spoken enough to Gimli, to his own family, to Mithrandir, to believe that much of the feud between elves and dwarves was based in part off of greed on the part of few, and misunderstanding on the part of many.  And based on his own experience with elves, how could Glóin expect any better of him?  He knew, of course, his people’s side of the story of eighty years before, but how could any other dwarf know of it?  To be sure, Laerwen had tried to make her peace, but why should the dwarves be inclined to forgive?

“I seek nothing but Gimli’s love,” he said at last, “which is a greater treasure than any I could desire from you, and which to my great fortune he has granted me already.  But I would not sunder him from his kin for love of me.”  His hair was heavy and hot on his neck; he swept it off over his shoulders.  Only now the temptation was there to twist his fingers into it, and he struggled to resist.  “You know that I am not Gimli; I have not his charm, nor his skill with speech.  But if there is anything I may do to assure you my intentions are true, ask me and I will do it if it is within my power.”

Glóin suddenly looked tired and much older than he had; he sighed and sank his head into his hands.  “There is nothing I can ask of you,” he said.  “You must understand this, Legolas” – and Legolas almost started at the omission of the formalities, even as Glóin looked up at him again with eyes pooled with emotion – “I wish to trust you.  Or rather, I wish you were one I could trust easily, one I could consider worthy of my son.  For I do not wish him to be alone, not when he desires love and companionship.  But my own mistrust is not something I can so easily overcome.”

“You will never find one worthy of Gimli,” said Legolas.  These were not the words he had practiced, but they rang so true to his heart that they came easily.  “I say this not to elevate myself in your eyes, for I include myself in that number.  It is my fortune that Gimli chose me, not the other way around.  But he has chosen me, and I promise you that I will devote the rest of his life to making him as happy as possible.”

“The rest of his life.”  Glóin chewed on his lip, the motion nearly masked by his white beard.  “Gimli told me of this last night: that you have bound yourself to him despite his mortality.  He seems to believe that you must either die with him, or live in loneliness.  Yet this seems contrary to what I have heard of elves.”

“I know not what you have heard of elves, at least not in the ways of love,” said Legolas.  “But Gimli spoke true: we wed once in our lives, and elves have indeed been known to die of lost love.  I have told him, I know not if it will be thus with me, but I will have no other before or after his death.  And I promise you,” overtaken by his own feeling, he leaned forward, both hands flat on the table, words coming fluidly but with the weight of vow, “that my knowledge of the brevity of his years will ensure that I do all within my power to prevent them being shortened further, at the expense of my own life if necessary.  By everything that I own and everything that I am, I promise you this.”

Glóin looked at him, and for a wonder Legolas found that it was no longer difficult to hold his eyes.  This was Gimli’s father – his own father now by the custom of his own kin, despite the incongruity of their ages – and he wished for Gimli’s happiness, for the well-being of Legolas’s love.  In that, they desired the same, so why should there be discord between them?

“I believe you,” Glóin said, letting out his breath in a huff.  “I should not, perhaps; my ancestors must cry out against it, but by Mahal I believe you.”  He shook his head and laughed a little, sounding a bit hysterical.  “I would have accepted it anyway, for love of my son – fear not; I would not have allowed a sundering – but I thank you, for coming to speak to me alone.  My wife and Gimli tell me it is not easy for you, and that you would show courage in this eases my heart for my son’s future.  I welcome thee, Legolas, son of Thranduil, and gladly do I offer thee a place in my halls and in my family.”

“I!” It was all Legolas could say, all the breath rushing from his lungs in the one syllable; dizzy with relief he swayed and clutched the edge of the table to keep himself upright.  “I thank thee, Glóin” – he looked a question, but Glóin did not seem bothered by his use of the informal – “for thy welcome and generosity.  I promise; I will give thee no reason to regret this decision.”

“See you do not,” said Glóin, abruptly gruff again, but then he heaved a great sigh and stood.  “Well, since we are to be kin now, I suppose you have much to learn of our ways.  You are to be wed in the coming days, and – do you even know what a dwarvish wedding entails?”

“Nay,” said Legolas, still sitting, hands rising from the table to hover an inch above it – what was he to do now?

Glóin took his hands and hauled him to his feet.  “Then you have much to learn.  Come with me.”

* * *

When Gimli returned from his visits, he found Legolas in the sitting room, crunched in a too-short chair with both of Gimli’s parents standing before him, speaking and gesturing wildly, interrupting one another every other word: loud and boisterous in the way Gimli had missed so much while he was away.

Legolas was smiling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It didn't fit well into the chapter, but I imagine Gimli's "craft" actually being the creation and running of kingdoms. This I imagine as being a combination of politics and architecture, because with dwarves structure and form are so important to content. It explains his delight in and plans for the Glittering Caves, his confidence and skill with speech, and his presence in Rivendell in the first place - maybe he was learning about diplomacy.


	35. Chapter 35

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Legolas and Gimli wed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this is it, folks! This last chapter is in snippet format, because that's how this story started for me (the first scene I ever wrote was one of the drabbles in chapter 12), and because I realized that this wedding has many moving parts. 100-word drabbles, with a bonus 200-word one at the very end.
> 
> For the most part, I've had the chapters of this story written weeks in advance of posting, but this one did undergo some editing a couple of days ago - two drabbles added in for Harmonious_Wolf_1993, per a comment they made a few days ago: both because they pointed out something that I had neglected to write (Glóin and Geira need some time to shine), and because of their consistent support throughout the posting of this story. Thank you so much - I have no idea who you are, and yet you managed to brighten pretty much every one of my days with your comments on almost every chapter.
> 
> **Edit: I realized that I should credit Flamebyrd and their "Woke up Married" stories for the idea that dwarves' parents have to teach them the marriage vows. Also, definitely read those stories.**
> 
> I'm also dedicating (I don't care if that's not a thing in fic) this story to my roommate for being the sounding board and support throughout the writing and posting of this story. She is my Gimli. <3
> 
> I know there is a lot more that happens with the two of them, and so many things still to address, but I think this chapter brings this particular story to its end. Thank you all for reading - the experience of posting this story and having people actually read it has been so terrifying and so rewarding.
> 
> And now, on to the story.

Dwarves’ weddings, Legolas learned, were complicated.

It seemed not an hour went by that he did not learn of some new tradition that had to be followed _just so_.  Vows had to be learned beforehand, separately, _and_ from the parents, and then repeated perfectly before the officiator; there were traditions of dress, preparation, and ceremony that must be done exactly right, or the couple would have bad luck.

Gimli assured him it was not as bad as it sounded, but Legolas could not help wondering – given his identity as an elf, would not the dwarves be watching him especially closely?

* * *

The wedding, Gimli informed him excitedly, was to be held in the grandest feasting hall of Erebor.  “A sign of the king’s approval of our union!” he said.  “He wishes to welcome us as heroes and to officiate our wedding himself.  Such an honor I never imagined for my wedding” –

“And such an honor I never imagined here at all,” Legolas responded, torn between gratitude and concern.  Indeed a warmer welcome than he had anticipated –

And yet, when Gimli showed him the hall where they would be wed, all he could think was how _very many_ dwarves would fit within.

* * *

Legolas did not understand why the other races made these events so _public_.

Aragorn’s wedding had been more of the same: tables of food and well-wishers who had never even met the couple.  The elvish way seemed so much more sensible, when faced with all the pomp: a declaration by the couple alone, the simultaneous bonding of willing bodies and willing hearts.

But that bond had been made already, visible to any elf who looked.  This ceremony was not for him, but for Gimli and his own kin – and one look into Gimli’s eyes made all the fuss worth it.

* * *

“Would you be amenable to dwarvish braids in your hair?”

Legolas wondered if Gimli had asked deliberately at the moment he was most pliable: lying sated in their bed, limbs heavy in the wake of lovemaking, as Gimli’s fingers trailed lazily through his hair.

“Is it another wedding custom?” he asked, more curious than hesitant.

“Aye, just as your wedded state is visible to all elves.”  Gimli tugged lightly on his hair. “After we have said our vows, we change one another’s braids, so all dwarves might see we belong to one another.”

Legolas kissed him.  “I would be honored.”

* * *

Most of Gimli’s mind was bent on choosing gold, but he could hear his mother talking with Turith, who ran the smithy.

“So it is true, then? You are to gain an elf as a son-in-law?”

“Aye.”

“My condolences,” said Turith, and Gimli jerked upright at the sneer in her voice.

Geira waved him down. “My son has given his heart to a worthy partner,” she said coldly.  “Why offer me condolence?”

Turith scoffed aloud.  “So the insanity is catching, then.”

“If you value all your teeth,” said Geira, voice even more dangerous, “I suggest you shut your mouth now.”

* * *

“Nali and I have been talking,” said Ain.

“As opposed to your usual silent staring contests.”  Gimli did not even look up from the designs he was painstakingly etching into the gold bead.  Smithing had never called to him, but he would hardly let another make Legolas’s wedding beads.

Ain ignored him.  “Does your elf have anyone to stand for him?”

Gimli looked up in surprise.  “Of course not.  We have no time to fetch anyone from Lasgalen – as if we would even be allowed.”

“Nali is willing, if I stand for you,” Ain said.  “We want you wed properly.”

* * *

Meanwhile, Legolas wandered in search of wood.

The woods at the base of the mountain were nothing like Mirkwood – Lasgalen – but the trees were sturdy, young, and so bursting for conversation that they gladly granted Legolas’s requests.

It was best, Gimli’s parents had explained, if the beads were self-crafted.  And Legolas claimed no mastery in carving, but he knew enough to repair his bow, fletch arrows, and even carve small trinkets.

It would be nothing like the elaborate jewelry preferred by most dwarves, but he would rather give Gimli his own poor work than a beautiful bead made by another.

* * *

Gimli could not still the shivers deep in his belly as his father spoke the words to him – the sacred words gifted by their Maker himself – that he would use to claim his beloved and be claimed in return.  He sat before his parents, repeated the vows, and felt the _rightness_ : knew they could have been meant for no other but Legolas.

“Amad, Adad,” he said hoarsely when the words sat firmly in his memory and his heart.  “Thank you.”

His mother squeezed his hand, and his father responded not at all – he was too busy pretending not to cry.

* * *

Legolas had no dwarvish parents to teach him the vows, so Glóin and Geira sat him down instead.

“An elf learning Khuzdul,” Glóin grumbled. “Our people will not be pleased.  Mahal, _I_ am not pleased, and I am teaching you!”

“Glóin,” said Geira, and he fell quiet.  She looked at Legolas.  “But he is right.  We teach you this ceremony because we trust that you mean it for all eternity.  Should you break these vows, it will be the worse for you.  Knowing this, do you wish to continue?”

Legolas thought the passion of his affirmative might have comforted them.

* * *

“I am being asked.” The tailor stared. “To sew wedding clothes.”  She paused, as though waiting to be contradicted.  “For an elf.”

“No,” Glóin corrected.  “You are being _paid_ to sew wedding clothes for an elf.  Generously, at that.”  He returned her challenging stare with equal heat.  “I have been told you are the best in the mountain; surely this should not be a challenge for you, even with such short notice.  Or should I take my business elsewhere?”

“No,” she ground out at last.

And for all that she glared as she measured him, Legolas could not stop smiling.

* * *

Gimli awoke in Legolas’s arms on the morning of their wedding day, a position already so familiar to him that he knew not what he would do when they parted (which would be soon thereafter, but he would not think of that). Legolas’s lips moved soundlessly against his hair, mouthing something he could not hear.

“What are you saying?” he asked, before even _good morning_.

“Practicing,” Legolas murmured, and blushed when Gimli pulled back enough to see his face.

And Gimli could only kiss him in response, realizing that he would hear those vows in only a few short hours.

* * *

The hall was filled with dwarves, just as Legolas had imagined; the wedding clothing, hastily made, was heavier than his preference.  He followed a borrowed friend to a dais where sat a king not his own.  He repeated the unfamiliar vow words in his head, and his sharp ears caught all the murmurs – many unfriendly – filtering through the hall.

But –

The hall was filled with dwarves who had come to support one of their kin wedding an elf; the heavy clothing had been tailored, however reluctantly, to fit him; and the king had chosen to officiate the ceremony, all in approval of a match Legolas had never imagined dwarves would allow.  The friend had agreed to stand for an elf he barely knew for the same reason.

On the other side of the king, Gimli smiled at him.

Legolas’s eyes locked with his love’s: deep as a firepit, burning coals of love and affection, shining with tears of joy.

And for all his fear, for all the eyes watching them, for all that the vows were in a language Legolas did not speak – he kept his eyes on Gimli’s, and when he spoke them, his voice shook not at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This work now has [fanart!](https://roselightfairy.tumblr.com/post/173750085651/zaera-d-legolas-and-gimli-from-roselightfairy) (I'm posting the link to where it's reblogged on my own Tumblr, because its creator [ZaeraDee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZaeraDee) has a Tumblr that can't be viewed unless you have your own account.) Check out the picture, because it is so beautiful, and actually makes me think of the way they might look in their wedding clothes. (That's just me, though.)


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